


It's Writetober 2019, let's do this

by Anzieizna



Series: Short stories [10]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 16th Century, Ancient Greece, Anglo-Saxon, Arranged Marriage, Arson, Doggos - Freeform, Dystopia, Inktober, Inktober 2019, Inktober but writing, Italian Renaissance, One-Shots, Other, POV Alternating, POV Animal, POV First Person, POV Third Person, Several characters - Freeform, Several one-shots, Viking Era, Werewolves, Witches, even more time periods, haunted building, playing through time, some tags for separate chapters, wiccan themes, writetober, writing challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-11-09 05:56:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 20,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20848616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anzieizna/pseuds/Anzieizna
Summary: I'm doing inktober, but writing style, because I can't draw to save my life but Icanwrite, like, one and a half sentences a day - maybe. Anyways, 31 super short stories (around 1000 words) for 31 days of October. Ready, set, go!Sneak peak:Emily pulled her to her side. “It’s eyes,Jesus Christ,did you see its eyes, Mum?”“What on Earth are you on about?” Claire asked, looking back at the dog.The dog sat there calmly, looking between the two women as he blinked slowly. His eyes were that strange light-amber that they’d always been, and his tail was wagging gently on the floor.“Its eyes,” Emily hissed. “They werered.”Claire narrowed her eyes. “Red?”“Yeah.”“Really?”“Yes!”“Hmm,” Claire hummed. “I’m sure they were. Did he also grow horns on his head? And big wings the size of a building? Oooh, oooh, tell me – did he grow three heads and declare himself Cerberus?”QUIT AFTER DAY 19 DUE TO TIME CONSTRAINTS, SORRY





	1. Day one - "Ring"

Freya turned the ring around in the cup of her palm, watching as it glinted in the light. It was silver cut, shiny and smooth, with a large blue gem in the middle. She didn’t know what it was – sapphire, lapis or kyanite, it all looked the same to her – but it looked magical as streaks of yellow shot through it. The ring’s surface was tapered, with empty places in the prong as if accent stones had fallen off in the past. Still, it was quite beautiful, the shank dented carefully with dotted lines that only drew the eye closer to the centre stone.

This ring, beautiful, smooth, seemingly magic ring, would be what tied her to Felipe of Spain, the tyrant.

From what she’d heard, the man was cruel and cold, caring only about conquering as many countries as he could and building his army. He’d slaughtered thousands in the name of his nation, then wiped the blood off his face with a smile.

And her father had happily sold her to him.

Freya continued to study the ring when a noise sounded behind her. She turned, startled before realising it was only her handmaiden. “Isabella,” she greeted. “Did my father send you?”

“Your mother,” the girl said, bowing to her princess. “She said he wishes to talk to you about your marriage further.”

Freya looked to the window. “Right.”

The day had long passed, with the sun falling past the ground and sending streaks of red blood into the sky. She could see the silhouette of countless homes below, villagers and knights mingling alike, boasting about their carrots or scarves or necklaces. In a few weeks, she’d be shipped off to a random king she’d never met, and she’d never see her people again.

Behind her, Isabella shuffled again.

“You’re excused,” Freya said, not looking away from her view. “My father can wait for me.”

Silence. Then, a quiet voice spoke up.

“I know it’s not really my place to speak, my Lady – but, if you want...”

Isabella trailed off, and Freya looked over her shoulder. “What is it?”

The maid sighed. “It’s clear you’re not happy with this. Everyone knows. But – well, there’s a rumour…”

Freya lifted a brow. “A rumour?”

“Yes,” Isabella nodded. Her voice sped up as she talked, as though she was nervous she’d get punished for speaking. “A rumour. About a stone in the forest, which can grant you the future you want.”

“You want me to consort with spirits?”

“No, no!” The girl cried, stepping forward. “Not spirits – just a stone. It’s enchanted, magical, blessed. There are several people who swear by it, who promise it brings your wishes to fruition.”

“If it’s so _magical_,” Freya said, her doubt clear in her voice, “how come my father hasn’t heard of it? You are aware that witchcraft it outlawed, right?”

Isabella let out at tiny huff. “But it isn’t _witchcraft_, my Lady. It’s a gift from God. And your father and his witchfinders are very eager to accuse any old woman of dealing with the devil simply because she’s a nuisance.” She paused a moment, looking at the ground. “What I’m saying, my Lady, is… the stone is sacred. It’s been blessed by God himself, and it grants wishes to those with the purest intent. It’s real, I promise,” she said. “And out of everyone at the castle, you have always been the kindest to the servants. And to your subjects. We want you to be a strong ruler, not your brothers. It isn’t fair you get to be traded away by a pawn simply because of your sex.”

Freya blinked. She opened her mouth then closed it, her cheeks burning as she listened to the words. “I… didn’t know you felt like that. That anyone felt like that.”

The girl laughed. “Truly, my Lady? We hate your brothers. They are cruel and vicious. You are a woman, trained to knit and serve your husband, yet people have seen you coach knights in your spare time and draw up maps for battle. We want you to be our leader, and you want to be our leader.

“Please,” she said, taking another step closer, “visit the stone. Ask for your wish.”

Freya hesitated. She skirted her eyes around the room. In ten minutes, her father would drag her out of her room and lecture her on making sure she pleased Felipe on their first meeting – meanwhile her mother would sit on the side, sending her daughter sympathetic looks but powerless to intervene.

She couldn’t become that. She _wouldn’t_ become that. She refused.

Isabella must have seen Freya’s shifting features, because she let out a breath out relief. “It’s by the river on the south, hidden under the trees. You’ll know it as soon as you see it,” she nodded.

Freya frowned. “I am not going to work with demons.”

“Good thing it wasn’t sent by demons,” Isabella said, then left the room.

Freya sighed, turning back to the window. She turned the ring around in the cup of her palm, watching as it glinted in the light. It still was beautiful, but instead of looking magical it now looked imprisoning, capturing yellow light in the blue gem and trapping it.

She stared, thinking, before she slipped it on her finger.

It looked pretty. In fact, if she wasn’t constantly reminded of who she’d be tied to, she would even like it.

The sun outside set, and after a moment, Freya went searching for the river on the south.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Research notes**  

> 
> • I'm studying Crime and Punishment in school so I wanted to do something during around those time periods. I imagine it's somewhere around the 16th century, as the Daemonology got published in 1597 and that's when the whole witchcraft craze _really_ started. Like, before it was an offence and all but nobody really knew how to identify them. Not sure if witchfinders were a thing in the 16th century as Matthew Hopkins reached his fame in the 17th, but it _probably_ was a thing, maybe just not as a big deal.
> 
> • I had to look up diagrams not only of rings, but of Middle Age rings. Middle Age rings were usually either gold or silver, with one centre stone, and indeed did have those 'line dents' which I couldn't find the name of. Accented stones weren't really popular but passing down wedding rings between generations was, so I wanted to include/hint at that at least.
> 
> • Name for the Spanish monarch literally came from me just googling 'Spanish kings' and being led to Wikipedia. Between the years 1506 and 1621, there were _four_ Felipes alone. So I just went 'yeah, you'll never know which one I was on about' and clicked off. It also works with the imaginary timeline I set up for myself as most of them were around the 16th century.
> 
> • Whilst I don't believe in God, church was a very important institution during this time so I felt the need to include it. The stone is not based off anything, though I did consider making it a type of 'the Sword in the Stone' deal (_not_ Excalibur, get it right people) but it's mostly just based off my random thoughts. 
> 
> • I looked up names for character in five minutes, literally. Freya is a Norse name, I know, but it was still used during the Middle Ages, and Isabella became quite popular due to noble figures. Though by that logic you could say that a handmaiden wouldn't be given such a noble name, I say screw you because it's a pretty name and I wanted it in my story.
> 
> Word count: 924.
> 
> _If you see any typos or mistakes, please do comment because I love feedback! Though do it in a nice way, as I have low self-esteem. Like, 'hey, this was decent and cool, but you misspelled the word and' or something. Comments are ALWAYS appreciated <3_


	2. Day two - "Mindless"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place in Ancient Greece at the Apollo temple in Delphi. That's right, it's _Pythia time!_
> 
> Sorry if it's confusing so let me lay down some definitions off the bat:
> 
> Drachmae \- currency used in Ancient Greece.
> 
> Hosioi \- men who worked at the temple; actual job not clear but believed to have been involved with "some manner of the operation of the oracle".
> 
> Adyton \- the sacred room where the Pythia would deliver her prophecies.
> 
> Omphalos \- a sacred stone believed to have helped with direct communication with the gods.
> 
> Prophetai \- men who would translate the Pythia's prophecy, often putting it into a rhyme.
> 
> I think that's about it. Enjoy!
> 
> **Edit:** I've recently been told by a friend it's a little confusing if you don't know who the Pythia is straight off. So, I added some explanation in the text but I'll also add some here: the Pythia was the title of a woman who the Greeks believed received prophecies from the gods, and people would come visit her at the Temple of Apollo and ask questions about their futures.

A lone crow settled on the peak of the building. Its black feathers were stark against the white and gold material used to build Apollo’s temple, material that shone in the bright light of the sun. There was hardly any wind, instead the air still enough to let the splashing of the nearby river ring clear through the air. The day was warm and pleasant, with insects scurrying across the ground, and children chasing each other around trees, and Andreas’ body wouldn’t stop shaking.

He took a breath, but it didn’t help. He had travelled too far for this, left his family alone and helpless. He wanted to stay – oh _the Gods_, did he want to stay – but his mother had insisted, _pleaded_, that he go and seek help from Greece's most sacred prophet.

And so here he stood, eyes glued to the large temple as if his life depended on it. And maybe his life didn’t, but his sister’s did.

Slowly, after even more agonising wait, smoke rose from behind the building.

Andreas let out a deep sigh of relief at the signal to enter, then made his way closer to the door. He ran his thumb along the leaves of the laurel plant in his hand, unable to look away for a moment. He'd been holding it all morning, squeezing it and rubbing it whenever nerves took over his body, and the edges of the plant were slightly torn now. For a moment, he was in a trance. Then he shook himself, handed the necessary drachmae to the _hosioi_, and entered the temple.

The opening room was large and tall, with what looked like endless offerings to Apollo. Plants, animals, and more punctuated every inch of the floor, with jewels dangling from string and candles dripping wax onto the ground. Andreas was so distracted he almost missed as the _hosioi_ lead him down below the main floor and to a side set of steps.

As soon as he entered the _adyton_, the smell was divine. Sweet and savoury, like the most expensive perfumes in all of Greece were all spilled into one room. The lighting was dark, with only dim torches to serve as the light hanging from the walls. The stone omphalos sat next to the centre of the room, carved into a knotted net and flanked by two solid gold eagles. Andreas would have been struck by how they glowed, even in this dark room, if he hadn’t been staring at the Pythia.

She sat there, on her tripod, holding laurel leaves and a bowl of spring water, ready to deliver the gods' messages. Her dress was white and simple, and her purple veil had been thrown over her back. It was clear she'd already worked a lot that day, as her face was drenched with sweat and her limbs loose with fatigue. Her figure shook slightly and her eyes were glassy, but despite all that she still looked ever so regal, like she was born in the heavens herself.

Andreas had heard the tale of Echecrates the Thessalian, how he had stolen away one of the virgin Pythias and, after that, how the high priestesses then became old women. But looking at the, the _being_ before him – with her fitting white dress and the glowing jewellery that adorned her - he wouldn’t have ever guessed it.

One of the men around her stepped forward, gazing at Andreas with dark eyes. “You come here to seek guidance from the Pythia. The goat we sacrificed in your name showed us the gods approve of your question. Ask it now.”

He stepped back. Andreas’ heart thudded. All those days of travelling, of watching the sun sink into the ground and rise from the Earth – he’d spent all those days preparing for this moment, and yet he still wasn’t ready.

“Ask it,” the same man echoed, “before you lose your chance.”

Andreas shook himself. “Pythia, I have a question about my family,” he said, like he’d practised with the priests. “My sister – Eulalia – has fallen ill. She is in constant pain, so much so that she can barely stay awake for more than a few minutes. Our village has kicked us out because they are afraid she may spread whatever is wrong with her, but I know she doesn’t deserve this. Tell me…” He took a breath, then looked up. “Will she die? Is there no hope for Eulalia?”

For a moment, there was no sound. Andreas’ heart ached as he wondered if his fears were real – if, after all this travelling, the Pythia would simply refuse to answer and he’d be sent back home with broken hopes.

Then she gasped. Heavily, largely, her chest falling quickly with the motion. She tilted her head backwards, almost falling off the tripod if it wasn’t for one of the _hosioi_ catching her. She groaned quietly, then once more, getting louder and louder as she trembled in her seat. Her fingers clenched the bowl of water tightly as her skin grew pale, as she inhaled the smoke in the room even more and more, as the hair on her head grew with static.

Then finally, she spoke.

And the words were nothing like Andreas had ever heard before. They were almost gibberish, sounding like something a fevered child would cry out, but the _prophetai_ watched earnestly and with rapid attention. The Pythia spoke under her breath for moments at a time, then the quiet would break with another loud gasp, or a moan, or sometimes even a stuttered scream.

Eventually, she settled down. Andreas had developed a headache from the noise, and the _prophetai_ gathered together to discuss the meaning of the gods’ message. Several _hosioi_ flocked to the woman, whispering as they held her still. She thrashed weakly in their grip, overbalancing multiple times as she took in the smoke frantically, like she couldn't resist its sweet smell.

Then one of the men stepped forward. “The Pythia has spoken, and the _prophetai_ have interpreted her words.”

He gestured to one of the garbed men, who bowed before the high priestess. “The holy woman says,

_“She holds chrysanthemums in her hands,_  
_but they too are frail._  
_When the lily of calla appears, no more will she wail.”_

He then bowed again and stepped back.

Andreas blinked. “What? What does that mean?”

“We have done our best to translate it,” the prophet said. “But the words of the gods are hard to understand. You will have to come to your own conclusion.”

Andreas laughed bitterly. “My _own_ conclusion? Are you crazy? I have travelled for _four days_ to see the Pythia and learn whether my sister will die or not. And you’re telling me I have to come to my own conclusion?!”

At the edge of the _adyton_ he saw guards shuffle in their places, but he didn’t care.

“Chrysanthemums? Lily of calla? What does that even mean?! Why can’t you just give me a straight answer, one that makes _sense!_”

A guard stepped forward. “Your loud voice is distressing the Pythia. She has shared her vision, the _prophetai_ have turned it into human speech, and you have received what you came for. Leave now, or we’ll have to escort you out.”

He snarled. “I have received _nothing_. Nothing but empty words and fancy lies! Apollo would not betray me like this!”

“Apollo speaks like a God,” the prophet who had spoken said. “The Pythia is stuck in the middle, living in the mortal world but listening to godly voices. And the _prophetai_ can only do so much, but we do our best. Leave now or we will force you to.”

“Your best?!” Andreas frowned. “You have given me a riddle, not an answer. I paid much drachmae for this, and I can’t believe I’ve thrown it away.”

Before he could say anything else, a guard grabbed him by the arms. Andreas tried to break free but the man was too strong for him, dragging him up the stairs and to the main floor. He opened one of the side doors, all but throwing him onto the ground.

“The Pythia gave you a gift with her words,” he growled. “And you have been so cruel to yell at her for all that she has done to you. You will be lucky if Apollo _ever_ shines his light on you again.”

The guard nodded decisively, then slammed the door behind him. Tears spilled from Andreas’ eyes. He sat there, abandoned in the dirt, unknowing if his closest kin would still be alive when he returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Research notes:**  
• Both names – Andreas and Eulalia – are Greek and literally took two minutes to look up.
> 
> • So the reason the Pythia saw all these visions was because the temple was actually over a natural gas-vent, so she was just high on fumes the whole time. It’s also the source for that sweet smell that was so present in the adyton. Furthermore, the origin story for the temple is also funny as hell – basically a goat keeper found that his goat was freaking out after falling into a crack in the earth, and followed to find himself getting a bunch of visions. He told other villagers and they all came, also getting super high. They built a shrine to worship the Greek gods there, but after the death of a lot of men the villagers chose a single woman to deliver their gods’ messages.
> 
> • Additionally, the Pythia was originally a young girl and a virgin. This changed when Echecrates of Thessaly kidnapped and raped one of them, and after that it was changed to be a fifty year old woman – this woman was forced to cut all familial ties, and made to dress as a young maiden girl. I mention both of these things in my text.
> 
> • The smoke is a reference to the ritual they would do before a consultant – a person who wanted the prophecy – would go through before approaching the Pythia. They would go to the temple, practise their question with the priests on how and what to ask, and before their question a goat kid would be “sprinkled with water”. If it trembled it showed the gods approved the consultant, otherwise it showed they didn’t care about the question. They then examined the goat’s organs to double check then burned it at an altar. The smoke was a sign that the oracle was open for questioning.
> 
> • Laurel leaves were expected to be brought by those seeking the Pythia's prophecy as they were seen as sacred plants. The Pythia also held them for the same reason, along with a bowl of Kassotis water from a nearby lake (which was also full of the fumes, further making her high and have 'divine visions').
> 
> • The prophecies she gave were almost always very vague. This was so that people couldn’t claim the Pythia led them astray– if it was vague enough, the priests could say that the consultant read the prophecy wrong.
> 
> • Related to this, it’s why I made my prophecy what it is. Both chrysanthemum and calla lilies are flowers of death, leaving no possible outcome for her living. However, if she ‘stops wailing’ it could also be interpreted that she stops wailing from the _pain_, therefore suggesting she WILL live.
> 
> • The location and description of the adyton is accurate. It was below the main floor and to the side, closer to the natural crack in the ground, and did in fact have an omphalos near the Pythia, flanked by two golden eagles representing Zeus. On another note, the omphalos was hollow which some believe may have heightened the fumes even MORE. The Pythia's clothes are also accurate - she wore a simple white dress, a purple veil, and jewellery to make her look like a virgin maiden.
> 
> • Andreas’ anger of the Pythia and the guard’s defence of her are both factually accurate. Many were very irritated with Pythia’s vague prophecies, though they often didn’t voice that like I did here (for effect). On the other hand, the Pythia was seen to have a respectful job and was widely respected. Several Pythias (as it was a title) gave prophecies to men in power who took her words into their hearts, and as she was the voice of the gods she was loved a whole bunch.
> 
> • The bit about Apollo shining his light on Andreas is due to a common phrase regarding the god. People would say ‘I hope Apollo’s light shines on you’ as a form of saying good luck because Apollo was the god of the sun (I actually worship his sister, Artemis, the goddess of the moon; go Artemis!). Because the Oracle of Delphi presided in the Temple of Apollo, it was very commonly said to other people.
> 
> Word count: 1325 words.
> 
> _Thanks for reading and make sure to comment if you can! Don't be shy, every time I get an email from AO3 I get super excited so even Kudos are appreciated! (Including guests) Feedback is also appreciated, just maybe try not to be too harsh because I have very "delicate sensibilities"._


	3. Day three - "Bait"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a simple one due to time constraints, so sorry if it's badly written or anything. Enjoy anyway!

The forest was dark.

The air felt cold.

The earth smelled damp.

The sun had set long ago, bringing rain with it that drenched all the trees and leaves. Anyone who breathed into the air found it turned into clouds less than a second later.

Arthur could claim that’s why he was shivering – that his body was doing it unwillingly, to keep him alive and warm, but it would be a lie. The real reason he was shivering was because he wasn’t sure if he’ll ever see his son again.

When Arthur was a child, his mother told him stories. Of princes and princesses, magical wizards and talking bunnies - and every night he wished he could live in that world instead. Then Oscar was born, and Jenny died, and he became a single father. And _of course_ it just _had_ to be that his son found out werewolves were real.

Arthur didn’t like listening to it too much. It was strange, and makes no sense, and whenever Oscar would excitedly ramble about how they’d had a meeting with an alpha of a nearby pack he would nod dimly and hum until Oscar got the hint and quietened down.

Now, he stood before the forest, thinking over and over the words he’d last said to him.

_I love you, son._

Was that enough? Would that keep him safe? What if he doubted him, or got scared himself? Would that ruin the whole mission, if he got too scared?

Oscar wasn’t a werewolf, thank God. But he was in a werewolf pack. Arthur didn’t pay too much attention to the members, but he knew the leader, whose name he didn’t remember, was the one who came up with the idea. The idea to make his poor, defenceless son play bait to one of the rabid creatures in the forest.

He watched with a tense body. The wind stirred some leaves, but no brown-haired, freckly boy wandered back into the light. Instead, the rest of the pack stood around him in just as tense silence.

Someone near him cleared their throat. “Listen,” she said, and Arthur still didn’t remember her name, “Oscar is capable of handling himself. He’s in a wolf pack, he’s had training. We wouldn’t have sent him in there if he wasn’t prepared for it.”

Before he could stop himself, his voice spoke. “You shouldn’t have sent him in there at all. If he dies in there, you’re the first thing I’m shooting with my gun.”

“Technically, that wouldn’t kill us.”

He looked up and glared.

The woman nodded sheepishly, grimacing at the ground. “Yeah, I didn’t think that would help.”

He sighed, then looked to the forest once more. “Piss off and leave me to my own worrying.”

The looked like she was going to say something else, but stopped, slowly shaking her head before stepping away.

Arthur watched as her shadow made its way towards the other werewolves. He couldn’t understand why Oscar, of all people – or monsters, rather – had to be the one to act as bait. Why couldn’t one of them do it? He knew they had super strength, and could heal bones in the span of minutes instead of months, like a regular person was subjected to.

Although, Arthur mused to himself, if he was truly thinking it through, Oscar most likely volunteered. He was like that – heroic and stupid, always putting other people before himself, even if it harmed him. 

Arthur smiled. He’d gotten it from Jenny.

Suddenly, there was a noise in the distant. A muffled yell, but clearly the signal they agreed upon. The man sprang forward, grabbing his shotgun and racing forward. The werewolves were already way ahead of him, what with their super speed and all, but as he drew closer and closer to the sound his strides increased.

He emerged into a clearing. Everyone was already there, claws and fangs out and their eyes glowing, viciously battling a single, large, mangled wolf. Its pelt was hideous, splashed with millions of scars and fur tangled in heaps. It stood on four legs and looked to be as tall as an office building, letting out a furious roar as it tossed the other creatures to the side.

Arthur wasn’t focusing on that, though. Instead, he rushed to the side of the clearing, where a boy wearing a yellow hoodie lay on the ground with blood rushing down the side of his face. He winced as Arthur fell down next to him, quickly pulling him up and into his chest. Oscar waved weakly towards his back, his grip weak and body shaking as he pressed further into his father’s embrace.

“Idiot, idiot, idiot,” Arthur chanted under his breath, gathering the boy in his arms. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again,” he said as he stood carefully. “God, you’re gonna be the death of me one day, kid.”

He carried Oscar just outside of the clearing, setting him down and running a hand down the side of his face. It looked as if he’d hit something hard and thrown on the ground, the red liquid rushing down all the way to his chin. His let also looked slightly twisted, and Arthur took a deep breath as he inspected even more damp patches that had soaked through the jeans.

Oscar let out a breath. “I would say sorry, Dad, but—”

“But you’re not sorry, yeah, I know – spare me the novel, Oz.” His dad sighed. “How do you keep getting yourself into this, seriously? I can’t go two days without you coming home with either a bruise or a story about how you guys took down a _fairy_ this week, or whatever.”

“For the last time,” Oscar groaned, “it was a _nymph_, not a fairy! They find that name very offensive, actually, it’s quite interesting if you look at their history—”

“Yeah, well, excuse me if I don’t have enough time to worry about offending nymphs over whether my son is going to be _alive or not_ by next week.”

The boy screwed his eyes shut, pressing his head further into the ground. “I’m not… I’m sorry, okay, but I’m not going to stop being part of this pack.”

Arthur looked away. He knew his son, how stubborn he was and how, when he had his mind set on something, he could never be thrown off that path. And if he kept pushing Oscar, pushing him to leave behind the danger and adventure, to go back to a happy and blissful life – he knew if he kept pushing for that, Oscar would have no choice but to cut ties with him.

So he sighed, looked down, and grabbed Oscar’s hand. He squeezed it tightly. “I’m not asking you to. I’m just saying… the next time you have a crazy werewolf loose on the territory, maybe don’t jump at the first opportunity to sacrifice yourself, okay?”

The brunet laughed. “Sure, Dad. I’ll try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Research notes:**  

> 
> • As soon as I saw "bait" as the prompt for today, I knew I was going to do the typical 'someone gets used as bait and the other worries about them' trope. But originally I was going to have two gal pals (aka lesbians) who worry over each other. But I was worried it'd be too cliche, and I play around with romance all the time. So I asked my friends whether I should do a love/love thing or a parent/child thing and they voted the latter. One of the guys said it would "bring a lot of tension" and I'm sorry to disappoint, but this one sucks. Anyways, I'm sure I'll be able to squeeze my lesbians somewhere else within the 28 days of this challenge I have left.
> 
> • I based this whole thing on Teen Wolf, see if you can pick up any references! Arthur specifically is based on Sheriff Stilinski (And Oscar is, therefore, based on Stiles, but I actually didn't really draw any similarities between their personalities; I'll expand on this in a moment) as I do think the Sheriff is a great dad. I know many people write him as being accepting of the supernatural and really involved in everything, but I personally always saw him as distant to that aspect in Stiles' life. Not, like, he didn't care about Stiles' safety or anything, but more like he was in denial and didn't want to think about how Stiles put himself into danger all the time. Additionally, I absolutely think Stiles would prioritise his dad over his pack - if it came to the point where John (not Noah - never Noah) said he had to choose one or the other, he would absolutely choose his dad over the McCalls or Hales (Or Reyes, or Boyds, or Laheys, or Whittemores, or...) which is where he and Oscar differ. Oscar is totally connected to the supernatural life, and would sooner cut ties with his dad than his pack.
> 
> • I haven't done a lot of work with parent/child relationships in my work, so I decided to take my chance. This, of course, means it might be weird and all that so sorry if it! I love feedback so don't hesitate to comment on how I can improve my representation! But also, I don't have a dad which means I don't really know how that relationship dynamic plays out. I'm aware there's differences between a kid and their mother, vs a kid and their father, but because I don't have experience with that I just did my best.
> 
> • The ending is abrupt because I have 0% knowledge on how to end my stories. I was planning to write them getting out of the forest and to a hospital, but I couldn't think of what to write for that? So I just wrote that, figured it sounded kind of nice, and called it a day. Let me know if you _do_ think I should make a longer ending, in which case I'll probably just add a paragraph or two of them going to the hospital and all that.
> 
> • This is shorter than day two was because of time constraints. Basically, I have school homework due in tomorrow so I had to take care of that first, leaving me less time to write this (and these notes, which I love writing, therefore why they're so detailed and all that. I love it when authors put notes at the bottom of their work either about the characters and their own headcanons, or on certain events in the text and any research they did to write it. I learnt this, actually, from a Hamilton fanfic where the author literally broke down everything in the chapter, talking about where they got the idea from - e.g. seeing it in real life - and how they researched certain things to make it accurate.)
> 
> • Just as a side note, I almost made Arthur (and Oscar) Italian. I'm a foreigner, so naturally I like writing foreigners into my story (and I've been playing too much Assassin's Creed II, lately) but I couldn't find a way to fit that in without making it seem like something made to show Arthur as a 'Totally Cool and Original Character, Yes Sir' so I just left it alone.
> 
> _Word count: 1234 (wooooooow)._
> 
> _Once again, any kudos OR comments will be appreciated! Feel free to point out any spelling or grammar corrections as for the most part I just spit these out and go 'good enough' and it's a pretty bad way to doing things, but I have no beta and I'm lazy so heal with it,_


	4. Day four - "Freeze"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is based off the animation Eight-Six (link in the notes if you want it) which takes place in a dystopian universe where the Earth has frozen over. Please tell me if anything's unclear so I can make it easier to read and understand. Enjoy!

I’ve never seen the colour green.

Not naturally, at least. Sure, 148-C was filled with signs that flashed green when it was safe to go outside, and books saved from Before had pictures of green animals and plants.

But I’ve never seen the colour green in real life.

Instead, everything is white, snow piled mile high and infection every inch of the ground. All the walls are cracked with ice, carrying with them a tinge of blue. It’s always freezing, and all the warm clothes we’re given doesn’t help much.

I assume it’s the same everywhere else. 148-C is only one of the many maze-like cities our government has set up, and I know there are other settlements around us. But the perimeter walls are solid, blocking us from the outside world. The only people allowed out are the Messengers, who are trained for years and years in order to be able to survive in the harsh ice long enough to reach other cities.

Rome says he’s seen green. In his dreams, of course. That he walks through fields of sage coloured grass, large trees with bright emerald leaves. I don’t really believe him – _my_ dreams are just a blur of grey on slightly lighter grey. Why should his be any different?

The most common green we see is in the eyes of the Guard Dogs. Their mechanical parts have a green glow below them, and it lights up even more when they’re processing data – registering the citizens, locating their targets, catching criminals. Well, I say ‘criminals’. I just mean people who got so desperate they got obvious.

The smarter people know how to hide from the Guard Dogs. Be still, be careful, be quiet. Otherwise the Dogs’ green parts glow and you know you’re caught. It’s how my mother died – she’d tried to steal some food for us, and she was spotted. My uncle, too, tried to escape the city, but he was found. Rome’s sister, Tokyo, got taken away, too. And she did nothing wrong. 

Tokyo was young, tiny, and thought she saw a butterfly. We tried telling her butterflies were extinct, that they’d died out only a few years after the New Ice Age hit. She didn’t listen to us and wandered off. The authorities came by with an insincere letter and a warning to repeat her mistake.

That was the day Rome vowed to run away from the government.

Some of the Messengers told of cities whose laws weren’t as harsh, that 144-C let people keep the Guard Dogs as pets, that 151-B had an area outside the city where kids could play together. I know they’re all fake, but Rome won’t listen. He’s desperate to escape.

I don’t blame him. The hope was beaten out of me a long time ago, but he managed to keep some of his determination. It’s cute, in a way – makes him seem younger than he is. It earns him a lot of affection in the community, but he sees it as belittling, as pity.

He’s not wrong.

Right now, even, they’re still doing it. Cooing at him as he grits his teeth and clenches his fist.

“Oh, you’re just the spitting imagery of your father,” one of the old ladies says. “He thought like that, too, always had all these crazy dreams about going outside the gates and all that.”

Rome frowned. “All the more reason to get out there, then! Think of what we could find out there – real water that hasn’t been dug up from ice, dogs that don’t follow commands because it’s in their codes, food that is actually _warm_!”

The people laugh. “Give it up, kid,” a man rolls his eyes. “You’re staying and dying in 148-C, and the sooner you get used to it the better it’ll be. Forget about all this ‘revolution’ crap, settle down with a spouse and some kids, and pay the government back for sustaining you when you’re too old to work.” He looks at me, standing behind Rome with what must be a tired expression on my face. “Go with Vienne, why don’t you? She might now be the brightest in the bunch, but she’s calm and quiet – she’ll beat that unnecessary stuff right out of you, I’m sure.”

One of the other men rose a brow, whispering, “_perhaps quite literally_” to himself.

I blush. Not at the implication we’re a couple, no, I’ve had seventeen years to get used to that. But the way they talk about me – as if I’m not there, as if I’ve gone deaf or have no ears. They never hesitate to downplay my character, use my status against me. It makes my face heat.

Rome frowns at this even more, probably seeing my gaze glued to the ground. “I don’t want to settle down and have kids. That’s safe and boring. I have more important things to do, like exploring the rest of the world!”

Another lady laughs. “Ah, all kids are like that. Soon enough you’ll grow out of those silly ideas and learn to appreciate the little things in life, like your wife or husband bringing out a cup of tea when you’re down.”

Someone else hums in agreement. “That’s far better than _exploring_, I’d say.”

I sigh and tap Rome on the shoulder before he can continue. “Come on, let it go. They’re always like that. They never learn.”

He tries to resist but I tug him away. We walk back to the shelter we share now that we’re born orphans and get stopped by a Guard Dog. Its signals are very subtle and small, but if you’re trained from birth you know to always watch them lest they think you missing a simple ear ruffle or tail twitch and get executed for resistance.

It stops up, sniffs, then its eyes glow brighter for a few seconds, before sending us on our way with no dismissal.

We get home eventually. Home isn’t really a home, just somewhere with walls and no snow on the ground. The elders graciously bought it for us – for Rome more than me, but I’m not complaining – but it’ll only be so long before the authorities get tired of our empty money.

So we try to stock up on what we can. Stealing little things, like candles and pillows, otherwise one of the Dogs might notice and report us. I’m sure they won’t help us in the long run, but Rome’s eyes glow every time he details me his long and intricate plans about how we’ll use paper to sabotage a Dog, or how a broken piece of glass will act as a weapon to help us climb the perimeter.

Rome huffs as he sits on the bed. “I hate them,” he mumbles under his breath. “You should hate them too. They treat me like a baby, but they treat you like a piece of dirt.”

“Being a baby is good,” I remind him. “It means you get benefits the others don’t.”

The boy scoffs. “Benefits? What benefits, Vienna? Having my every thought thrown away because I was an ‘idealist just like my parents’?” he quotes bitterly.

“Yes. If _I_ said those things, the Dogs would have gotten me a long time ago.”

He sighs and I sit next to him. Rome leans onto my lap and I place an arm on his shoulder, rubbing gently. “I just don’t get it,” he whines. “What’s the point of living if we don’t get to do anything? We just sit around all day, going to classes to learn about how our government saved our lives and how we should be eternally grateful for them.”

“You could become a Messenger?”

“And die the first time I go outside? No thanks. Besides,” he says, “you know they only allow you to train as one if you’re from an upper class. I wouldn’t work with you.”

I shrug. “Maybe it’s for the best. I’m not doing to any favours, sticking around and following you everywhere – everyone who sees us together assumes I’m going to corrupt you or something.”

“They’re wrong!” Rome cries, sitting up. “It’s unfair how they treat you, I hate that. I hate everyone in this stupid city and this stupid world.”

I hum sympathetically. “I know, but it’ll get better. Once you grow up to become a Messenger, you’ll be surrounded by lots of other people who crave adventure, just like you.”

He leaned against me. “I don’t _want_ to be around them. I want to be around you. You’re like my sister, I’m never going to leave you behind!”

He buries his head in my arms, and I muffle his crying by hugging him tightly. “Shhh,” I whisper. “It’s okay. I don’t mind. I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” he sobs. “Here, with you, in our house with our blanket and those gloves you gave me last summer.”

The summer before had been slightly less cold than usual. Rome had been complaining about his gloves but having bare skin in the open was a definite no, so I had stolen some money and used it to commission some thinner gloves for him. They were bright yellow, and he smiled for a full week after he got his gift.

“You’ll be able to buy all the gloves you want, in the future.”

He shakes his head. “It won’t be the same if it’s not from you.”

I gently push his head back into my arms and rock him softly, listening as his cries grow weaker and weaker until he falls asleep and still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Research notes:**  
• Sorry I wrote this so late! I planned to have it uploaded earlier but I had some school stuff to take care of first, and then AO3 went off life around 6pm. But I’ve finally uploaded it and _just in time_ too, woo! That was close.
> 
> • I don’t usually write in first person OR in present tense so there’s _bound_ to be a bunch of mistakes. As I have no beta and I’m lazy I probably haven’t caught them all (or any of them, to be square with you) so if you see anything don’t be afraid to comment down below and make any corrections.
> 
> • This piece of writing was actually inspired by the animation Eighty-Six. There’s only one part and it’s eleven minutes but it’s _sooooooooooooo gooooooooooooooooooooooood_ and it’s about a dystopian world where the Earth has frozen over and people live in maze-like cities with a bunch of mechanical dogs as the authority. You should totally check it out and give the creator some love because they deserve it: https://youtu.be/bL6C5k4iIhk
> 
> • Names follow the dystopian novel room of “not making any tense because they don’t sound like actual real names”. In this case, major cities! Rome is the capitol of Italy, Vienna is the largest city of Austria, and Tokyo is the capital of Japan. I was thinking of giving them normal names but thought that was boring, then saw a thing about shoving Oreos in your mouth, trying to say normal names, and writing down the deformities you ended up saying (Allison + oreos = Alson or something). I ended up going with cities because one of my friends has a cat named Tokyo and I thought it was cute.
> 
> • And I’m (unintentionally) exploring even more familial relationships. Which is great, because it’s helping me grow at a writer! I usually just stick to romance because it’s easier but this is fun because I get to focus on other things, and these (really weird and wild) prompts make me think outside the box, forcing me to be creative and not rely on my regular writing methods and formulas. I’m sure I made some mistakes but I low-key don’t care.
> 
> • This is the fourth day in which I continue the streak of ‘I have no idea how to end stories, someone please sent help’. No one has yet, but it’s fine. Probably. Maybe? Eh, I’m sure I’ll be okay. Anyways, I literally just ended this because I was like ‘whoops this is getting even longer than the Pythia one’ so enjoy that very abrupt ending there. Also, does this link to spookiness? Maybe not, but lets just the pretend the whole ‘robots dogs’ thing does and call it a day. 
> 
> _Word count: 1599 (most of it is exposition, whoopsie)._
> 
> _As always, I encourage anyone to write comments! Both about my writing AND any mistakes you want me to correct. This chapter especially as I don't play around with the present tense and first person too much, so I'm sure there's plenty of mistakes in this one._


	5. Day five - "Build"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry it's so late - time constraints, _again_. This one totally sucks and I hate it but I tried, okay! Anyways, build = building = haunted building. Enjoy!

“Well that’s not creepy at all,” Finn sighed. “Massive, creepy, weird-smelling hospital gets demolished in order to build a new neighbourhood for rich people?” He shook his head, gripping the handlebars of his bike tighter as he resisted a shiver. “I can tell _that’s_ gonna go well.”

“Oh, come on,” Pepper said, rolling her eyes. “It wasn’t _really_ haunted. It was just a rumour.”

“That’s what they want you to think,” Marianna piped up. “But remember when we went there last Halloween? And we saw that weird figure through one of the windows?”

The kids paused, musing at the memory. Stories about the hold, abandoned hospital were endless, filled with ghosts who haunted each hall and room looking for vengeance. The previous year they’d all dared each other to go inside and explore, but the three had turned tail when they saw a dark figure through one of the third story windows.

Now, however, the hospital was long gone. In its stead were the skeletons of house upon house, the designs grand and large and clearly suited for rich folk. Their school was already filled with stories about how all these houses would be filled with dead nurses and doctors and victims.

Pepper waved a hand through the air, dismissing the thought. “We were kids back then. We could be scared by anything.”

“We’re twelve,” Finn said, raising a brow. “We’re not exactly wise men and women now.”

“Oh, shut up.” Pepper pushed his shoulder, laughing as his bike almost soared to the side. “You know what I mean. It was just all the rumours getting to us – we know better now. Well,” she said, side-eying her friends. “At least _I _do.”

Marianna laughed. “Please. You were the first one to run away, don’t lie to us.”

“I still think it’s weird,” Finn interrupted before they could go on, because trust him, _they would. For several hours. And possibly for several days_. “Imagine moving into a house only for the realtor to tell you it used to be an abandoned hospital.”

“What’s a realtor?”

“The person who sells the house,” Pepper told Marianna. “And I’d still buy it. Ghosts aren’t real. I’m not scared of them.”

Suddenly, hands grabbed her shoulders. She screamed and jumped, throwing her bike to the side and turning around as fast as lightning. Behind her, Marianna fell to her knees in laughter, snorting and chortling and clutching her stomach.

“Ugh, I _hate_ you,” Pepper growled.

“You should have seen your face!” Marianna said between her gasps. “Oh, God, I wish I had recorded that. That was great.”

Finn couldn’t help supressing his own chuckles, and Pepper whirled on him. “Really? You think this is also funny?”

“I mean…” Finn shrugged. “You _did_ look pretty scared.”

The girl huffed, crossing her arms. “I am _so _not. You guys are just stupid.” Her gaze wandered behind their shoulders, then her eyes lit up. “Fine – to prove I’m not scared, I’ll walk onto the construction site.”

Marianna stopped laughed, raising a brow. “_You_ want to walk onto a construction site? With drills and bulldozers?”

“I’m not scared,” Pepper said. “Are you?”

“No.” Marianna stood up straight, lifting her chin. “Course not. In fact, I _love_ walking onto construction sites.”

Pepper narrowed her eyes, shifting uneasily. “You’ve been on one before?”

“Oh, totally,” she nodded. “My brother dared me, and I went on all alone. Didn’t scream _once_.”

Finn rolled his eyes. “No, you didn’t. You’re lying.”

“No, _you’re_ just too scared to go with us.”

The boy frowned. “It’s not that I’m scared – but my mum will _literally _kill me if she finds out what I’m doing. I’ll be grounded until I’m, like, a hundred.”

Pepper laughed. “You’re a goody-too-shoes. Come on, Finn, we’ll only be there a minute.”

“Or maybe longer,” Marianna said, sticking her tongue out. “Depends on how fast Pepper runs back to her mommy.”

“I won’t,” Pepper exclaimed. “I bet I can stay there longer than you.”

“You’re on,” Marianna grinned, then took off without warning.

They watched as she ran up to the chain fence, looking along the sides of it for an entrance.

Finn looked at Pepper. “Are you actually going in there?”

The girl swallowed, eyes wide. She shook her head then, glaring at Finn. “_Yes_. Duh. I’m not scared.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine, whatever, I’m going home.”

He tried to turn his bike but Pepper grabbed his shoulder, pulling him away from it. She ignored his protests and said, “no way. If I’m going in there, you’re going in there too.”

“How is that fair?” Finn whined. “You two have got to stop dragging me into this kind of stuff.”

“Are you coming?” Marianna called from far away, waving her arms. She pointed to a point of the fence that had bent to the side, and they walked over to her. “We should be able to fit through that. Or did you get scared again?”

“Never,” Pepper said. “And I wasn’t scared in the _first_ place.”

“I saw,” Finn raised his hand. “I’m pretty scared. There are ghosts in there, I’d like to point out.”

Marianna shrugged. “So? They’re ghosts? They’re just blurry air, they can’t hurt us.”

“They’re also _not real_,” Pepper reminded them. “We proved that last year.”

“When we ran out of the house like babies?”

Pepper nodded. “Yep. No ghosts, just some shadows. I’ll show you guys, no such thing as ghosts.”

They walked across the grounds together, staring wide-eyed at the buildings around them. Most of them were barely even there, just pillars and loose piles of wood. Some were more concrete, with three walls but no roof. At the edge of the large lot were tiny buildings the three recognised.

“Hey, that’s from the hospital,” Marianna pointed it out, whispering. “Those rooms where they’d keep the dead bodies. I wonder why they haven’t torn them down.”

“They probably will,” Finn said. He pointed. “See, all those cars around it and stuff? They’re getting ready to take it down later.”

Pepper huffed, then stepped forward. “Perfect place, then, to show there’s no ghosts – if ghosts _were _real, that’s the one place they’d definitely be, right?”

Finn shrugged. “Yeah, probably. But seriously, guys, my mum _and _dad are gonna kill me if we don’t leave soon.”

“Stop being such a baby,” Marianna sighed. “We’ll go in quick, then come out even quicker. Okay? And you’ll get to see Pepper screaming and wetting her pants.”

“No you won’t!” Cried said girl. “If anyone’s going to be wetting their pants, it’ll be you, Marianna.”

“Game on,” the girl grinned. She dashed into the doorway of one of the buildings. “Get a move on, you two. Before the sun sets and the vampires come out!”

Finn sighed. “I’m so gonna regret this,” he said, before following the two in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Research notes: **
> 
> • Sorry it’s so late, and that these notes are coming _after_ the upload. I’ve just had a super busy day and had to rush this (which means there’s bound to be some mistakes) which is why – as always – there’s another abrupt ending. I think I may actually hate this one the most? It just seems so badly written and rushed and inaccurate. I’ll blame time constraints, not my very bad writing skills. :/
> 
> • On another note, I actually planned to make this longer? Like, to include the part where they go into the building. But I couldn’t find a way to work it and I didn’t have enough time, so I just thought I would make it into a two-parter. But tomorrow’s prompt is “husky” and I can’t think of ways to link that into this story (the voice of a ghost could be husky, I guess? Eh, it’s a stretch). Anyways, that’s a second reason the ending is so abrupt. But (unless I take an interest in any of these) these stories are just one-shots so I’m not really worrying about making them longer and all that.
> 
> • And now onto the actual context notes! Pepper is inspired by Pepper from the Good Omens book and miniseries. There might not be much correlation but I said ‘inspired’, not ‘carbon copy’ so I think you can give me some leeway. The other characters aren’t really inspired by anyone. I’ve always liked the name Finn so I just decided to use it here. Marianna came in just because I feel like you see the mix of boy/girl/boy friendship a lot in media, but not so much girl/boy/girl. So I decided to make Marianna a girl, though it literally had no impact on the actual plot of the story.
> 
> • This is the second day in a row I’ve written kids, and I’m sorry. Kinda? I mean, I should never apologise for writing outside my comfort zone but I _am_ trying to explore things with this writing challenge, so doing the same thing twice in a row feels like kind of… not doing that? Anyways, you can probably tell that I really struggle to write children here because their characters were super inconsistent. I didn’t know how to balance the mature vs childish parts of their personalities. The only thing I remember about myself when I was twelve was being cringey and easily offended, so I kind of included that here? But yeah, this one just sucks. I hate it but the show must go on! Tomorrow I’ll try to experiment with something on the opposite side of the spectrum, so look forward to that…
> 
> _Word count: 1141._
> 
> _I’ve said this before, but please don’t hesitate to comment and kudos! Seeing as this is a challenge, most of the time I just hit send as soon as I write it, meaning there is DEFINITELY gonna be some mistakes. Please comment if you find any!_


	6. Day six - "Husky"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little long, buckle in kids, and get ready for a story...

Claire had just locked the door behind her when she froze. She’d been about to go out to the shops and buy groceries for her and her daughter’s lunch tomorrow – Emily always told her not to bother, but it was like as soon as she became a grandmother she couldn’t see a single member of her family without cooking up a big meal. Her husband used to tease her about it all the time, and now each meal she made she liked to imagine he was still playfully joking just behind her.

But she hadn’t made it more than two steps outside her house when she froze. Because, sitting neatly on the front drive, was a big dog.

A _really_ big dog.

Its fur was a mix of white and grey, the colours bleeding into each other and for a second it almost looked like the shapes were moving. There were knots in the pelt, clearly uncared for as they went every which way, making it look like it had just walked through a bush backwards. The paws were large, claws curved and digging into the ground. Muscles rippled along the dog’s body as it breathed in and out, amber eyes watching every movement Claire made, gaze intelligent, thoughtful, like it could see right into her soul.

Claire supressed a shiver, looking around at the other houses. “Hello?” she called. “Anybody lost a dog?”

After a minute of silence she frowned again, looking at the dog. “Alright,” she said as she crawled closer. “What’s a big puppy like you doing out here on your own?” She hesitantly reached a hand out and the dog leaned forward, sniffed it, then pushed its head into her palm. “Oh!” Claire laughed. “Affectionate, you are. Now who do you belong to?”

There was no name tag, though she did find out the dog was a boy, if that counted for anything. She stuck around outside for a few more minutes, calling to the neighbours but none of them responded. Claire shrugged, then gently let the dog inside.

He stopped at the entrance, head tilted toward her. He didn’t enter until she gave him a gentle shove, walking in slowly and cautiously. He raised his nose into the air then seamlessly walked into the house. Claire followed, slightly amused as she watched him navigate her home like he’d been born there.

He entered the living room and stopped by the fireplace, staring up at all the frames of her family inside. Then he walked up to the TV stand, sniffing carefully before sneezing with a displeased growl. He wandered up to a leg chair and, after a while, started nibbling at it.

“Oi, stop that.”

The dog stopped immediately, ears perked. Claire settled into her loveseat and after a moment the dog followed, tracing his eyes around the room before throwing himself down on Claire’s legs.

“Hmm,” she thought, then picked up her phone.

It was all fancy and gadget-y, and despite how many times her grandkids had tried to teach her all the ‘useful’ features it had she only knew how to call and text. But that was all she needed, so she didn’t mind.

The phone ringed twice, then a voice came through. “Hiya, Mum,” Emily greeted. “You alright?”

“Oh, yes, don’t worry about me,” Claire smiled, “I’m just calling because… well, I’m in a bit of a situation.”

“Oh?” She could hear the frown in Emily’s voice, and the clatter of something in her hands being put down. “What’s wrong?”

Claire waved a hand through the air. “Oh, nothing’s wrong. I’ve just found a lost dog, is all.”

As if understanding the words, the dog looked up at that second. His fierce eyes bored into Claires’ and her bad vision must have gotten worse, because for a second she could have sworn they’d glown red. Then the dog sneezed softly and placed his head between atop her knees.

“A dog?” Emily asked as Claire began stroking its fur. “Where’d you find it?”

“Sitting just outside my door, actually. He seems fine, not too aggressive or anything.”

“He?” Her daughter asked, voice amused. She then cleared her throat. “Be careful, alright? It might not _seem _aggressive but it could have – I dunno, rabies or something.”

Claire laughed. “Trust me, kid, if this dog had rabies I’d know straight away.”

“I can’t believe after thirty-eight years of existence I still haven’t heard _all _of your village-childhood-stories. I mean, the one about the horse that almost trampled you to death was already hard to believe, but you’re _seen a dog with rabies_?”

Claire smirked. “If it helps, it wasn’t my dog. Though I did end up shooting him.” The dog on her knees whined. “Oh, not you, you big baby. And we made sure it was harmless and quick – no need to be scared of me.”

Emily snorted. “There is every reason to be scared of you. We still on for lunch tomorrow?” Claire hummed in agreement, then Emily groaned. “Oh, I forgot to tell you – it’s gonna be just us tomorrow, there’s this school trip and Gwen’s gonna come pick them up and drive them home. That okay?”

“Of course, I don’t mind at all. Just means I have more time to spend with my favourite daughter.”

“I’m your only daughter.”

Before Claire could say something else, a distant voice cried, “ohh, is that Grandma?”

“It is. Do you wanna say hi?”

The phone was grabbed before Emily had even finished talking. “Hi Granny!” Jade yelled through the phone, and Claire had to pull it back a bit. “How are you?”

“I’m good, darling, how are you?”

“In class today we got to draw in a picture of a crocodile! Have you ever seen a crocodile, Granny?”

Claire smiled. “Oh, have I.”

There was a quiet sound of, ‘_dear God’ _from what was probably Emily. “That’s so cool!” Jade cried, then there was a crackle.

“Hey Granny,” another voice said. “It’s Thomas.”

“I know who it is,” Claire said. “Do you really think I can’t recognise all my grandchildren’s voices?”

“Yeah, well, just checking. Anyways, I wanted to say – no, Jade, go _away_ – I wanted to say sorry that we’re not coming round tomorrow.”

Claire raised a brow. “You’re not being mean to your sister, are you?”

“No!” Thomas grinned, even through the phone. “That’s just how we talk to each other.”

The old man hummed. “Could be worse. You know, when I was younger, I once hit my brother round the head with a tire.”

Emily’s voice came in, further away than Thomas’. “Really, Mum? _That’s_ the one you don’t tell me, but you do tell me the one about that time you found a snake in your garden?”

“You found a snake in your garden?” Jade echoed. “Cool!”

Claire winced. Probably didn’t sound as cool for the snake.

“Alright, alright,” Emily said, now much louder. “You two go off and do your homework. Thomas, I know for a _fact_ that you haven’t even started that history project Mr Wilson has given you.”

“But _Muuuum_,” Thomas whined.

“Don’t care. If you want to complain at someone, go complain at your other mum.”

Claire snickered as she listened her daughter corral her kids. Eventually Emily sighed loudly. “Sorry, Mum, they’re kinda crazy tonight. What did you want with the dog again?”

“Oh,” Claire said, having already forgotten it. “It’s fine, no worries. I was thinking I should probably put up dog posters and stuff around the neighbourhood in case someone’s looking for this little guy.”

“Why don’t you just put it on Facebook?”

Claire groaned. “That thing, ugh. Still have no idea what it is, that name makes no sense.”

“Look, I’ll help you tomorrow, okay? We can put out a ‘dog found’ post on Facebook and you’ll find the owners way faster than if you just put posters everywhere.”

“Such a shame, abandoning this dog,” Claire frowned. “Can’t imagine what horrible monsters could do such a thing.”

The dog growled contently as she scratched its ears, tail thumping on the ground.

“Some people are like that,” Emily said, then sighed. “Anyways, I should probably go. Dinner’s not gonna cook itself.”

“I’m sure it won’t,” Claire nodded. “You go on, I won’t bother you any longer. Bye, love.”

“Bye, Mum.”

The phone clicked and Claire looked down. “Now,” she said, stroking the dog’s head. “What am I going to do with you?”

The next morning, Emily came round at half-past one.

“Hey, I’m here,” she called as she came in through the window. “You inside?”

“Yes, dear, in the kitchen.”

She’d just finished putting the food in the dog bowl when Emily entered the room.

“Woah, what’s all this?” the woman laughed. “Did you seriously buy a _dog bed? _And I’m pretty sure I can see three separate toys on the ground already, too.”

Claire shrugged. “Wanted him to be comfortable, didn’t I? It’d just be rude not to.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine, sure. Now where’s the dog, then? He’s not _so_ tiny I can’t even see him, is he?”

“He’s just gone outside, I’ll get him.”

Claire opened the door to the garden and leaned outside, whistling for the dog. A few moments came by before he jumped up into the house, shaking loose dirt from his fur. He trotted over to Claire, rubbing his head against her knee before turning his gaze to Emily.

Emily, who was stock still, staring with wide eyes.

A second of silence, and then, “Mum. What. Is that?”

Claire frowned, looking back down. “It’s the dog. You remember I told you about him yesterday, you said you’d help me with that Bookface thing?”

“Facebook,” Emily corrected mindlessly, then shook her head. “No, I – I get that, it’s just… Mum. That’s not a dog.” She looked up. “That’s a wolf.”

Claire laughed. “What?”

“That dog is _massive_. You made it sound like you’d picked up a chihuahua or something, I had no idea it’d be so – so… whatever the hell this thing is.”

“Oi!” Claire covered the dog’s ears. “He can hear you.”

Emily groaned in frustration. “He’s a dog, he doesn’t _care_ what I’m saying. And I’m saying that that thing is _way _too big to be a normal dog. Look at its paws, too!”

Claire glanced at the paws and hummed. Sure, they looked a big bigger than usual, and maybe the claws were longer than Claire had ever seen before, but she wasn’t a dog expert, was she?

“I think you’re overreacting. He’s just a puppy.”

“Mum, he comes up to your _chest_.”

Claire shrugged. “I’m pretty short.”

“Mum, would you please just listen? I really don’t know if its…. Safe, for you to keep him in your house?”

“And what would you have me do, throw him out?” The woman scowled. “You’re just as bad the people who abandoned him, I swear.”

“You do realise he’s been growling for the past five minutes.”

Claire blinked. “Really? I don’t hear anything?”

Emily sent her a look as if she was crazy. “Are you kidding me? That thing’s like a lawn mower, God! We’re taking it to a shelter, come on.”

She stepped back into the front hall, reaching for her coat. Claire huffed as she followed, petting the dog as it stuck to her side.

“No, we’re not. You’re being stupid, really, Emily. Why would there be a wolf in the middle of England?”

“Well, I don’t know, do I?” Emily asked as she turned around. “Maybe it escaped from a circus or something and—_Oh my God, it’s eyes!_”

Claire jumped, grabbing her daughter’s wrist. “What, what, what’s happening?”

Emily pulled her to her side. “It’s eyes, _Jesus Christ, _did you see its eyes, Mum?”

  
“What on Earth are you on about?” Claire asked, looking back at the dog.

The dog sat there calmly, looking between the two women as he blinked slowly. His eyes were that strange light-amber that they’d always been, and his tail was wagging gently on the floor.

“Its eyes,” Emily hissed. “They were _red_.”

Claire narrowed her eyes. “Red?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Yes!”

“Hmm,” Claire hummed. “I’m sure they were. Did he also grow horns on his head? And big wings the size of a building? Oooh, oooh, tell me – did he grow three heads and declare himself Cerberus?”

Emily spluttered. “What – I – I mean, no, but—”

“Right then,” Claire smiled. “I think you’re just getting a bit excited. Now, what kind of tea do you want? I got this wonderful mix from one of the neighbours, Holly, and did you know her grandson got married last week? Their honeymoon’s in Hawaii, can you imagine? God, I remember your and Gwen’s honeymoon, you left the airport looking like you’d slept with a hangar in your mouth and…”

Emily watched as her mother walked into the kitchen, continuing to talk even though she got no response. She turned her eyes back to the dog, who was still looking at her with his normal eye, and _totally still growling_.

“Now,” she said, crouching closer down, “I don’t know what the hell kind of… _thing_ you are, but you’re making my mother pretty happy so I’ll give you a chance. Bite her, jump at her – even _look_ at her wrong _one time_ and I’ll send you to the other end of the country. Got it?”

The dog stared at her with narrowed eyes, before suddenly nodding and following after Claire.

Emily blinked, eyes still glued to where the dog had sat. “Right. Okay. That just happened.” She slowly stood up. “Gwen is gonna _freak_ when I tell her about this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
Research notes:  
**
> 
> • Sorry this is so late, but it’s because I actually took a _reeeeeally_ long time to write this. You can probably tell. This one was super fun because it had a lot of characters who are really different and new aspects to explore, and I’d definitely like to see if I can take this any further. Anyways, sorry for the late update, as usual, but also whoops deal with it.
> 
> • This story is based off a prompt I saw on Tumblr a couple years ago. Basically someone sees a stone dog and pets it every day (or something like that) and one day it turns into a real dog and protects them. This is kinda similar, I think? It’s just this totally-asbolutely-100%-not-a-demon dog who gets adopted by the grandma and goes on to protect her and stuff. If I did to an actual story on this, I think I would draw out the taming, so that it took several months of the grandma leaving out food for the dog and shelter the dog a few times before she could adopt it. And I’d love to explore the grandkids some more, too!
> 
> • The grandkid part actually came because I’ve been watching Friday Night Dinner lately, so I’m obsessed with the idea of parents/kids getting together and having domestic time which is why it’s a theme in this text.
> 
> • I finally got to include some lesbians in this! Yaaay! Originally I was gonna have Claire be a lesbian, with her wife dead, but thought it’d be more prominent if Emily was the one who had a wife. Plus it shows that two women can raise kids, and I like that. Hopefully I’ll be able to add more LGBT in these stories like trans, ace, demi ect but I’m quite hesitant because I’m a cis girl, and though I am bi and therefore feel comfortable writing same-sex relationships, the same thing doesn’t translate over to trans or ace characters. So we’ll see how that goes.
> 
> • On a side note my idea for the dog was for him to be a hell hound, which is quite funny because Claire jokingly calls him Cerberus. Cerberus, by the way, was the three-headed dog in Greek mythology who guards the gates of the Underworld, where all the dead live. Not too sure if he hell hound bit comes through, or even if it’s important, so I just left it as it is.
> 
> • All those “village stories” are 100% real and come from my mom. My mom grew up in a village and every once in a while she tells me really weird (or sad) stories, like that time she found a live pile of puppies buried in the ground, or how she nursed a blind cat back to health, or how a horse almost killed her by chasing her along a road. Every few months she comes out with a new one that I’ve _never_ heard of before and it drives me nuts.
> 
> _Word count: 2280 (wooooooo!)_
> 
> _Please don't hesitate to comment or kudos!! Seriously!! Please!! I need the encouragement. Alright, I'm going to stop sounding super desperate and go do my homework. Bye!_


	7. Day seven - "Enchanted"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just before you read, I'm sure lots of people looked at "enchanted" and went for a love route. I did not! I went for a platonic type of enchanted, which I'm not actually sure if it reads here? Anyways, this chapter just contains two characters who are enchanted, or interested, in aspects of the other, NOT ROMANTICALLY.
> 
> This is very important I stress this and it's because this story is about a dog and a cat. So yeah. Otherwise, it'd be awkward.
> 
> Picture references to the characters:
> 
> Dog - (Breed; Estrela Mountain Dog) https://cdn1.royalcanin.es/wp-content/uploads/2016/07/serra-estela-1-1.jpg
> 
> Cat - (American wirehair) http://seeclickfix.com/files/issue_images/0007/1935/stray_cat_3.jpg

Bear sighed as he set his chin on his paws, closing his eyes as he drifted off. He’d had a busy day today, his owners taking him out for the day to a nearby park to play frisbee. One of the friends of his owners brought their cub, and he got to lick its face and push it gently until it chased after him. It was great and fun, and he only got yelled at twice, and now he was _tired_.

He yawned as he settled into a more comfortable position. He wondered what they’d be doing tomorrow? Maybe his alpha would take him to that forest they went to a week ago, and he’d be able to chase some squirrels. He loved chasing squirrels. His owners always told him off for it but it was just so much _fun_, running after their little tails and forcing them up trees. Maybe he’d get a new toy? He needed a new toy, he’d chewed up that bright green one, those little bits of fur had gotten stuck in his teeth and he—

Suddenly, something dropped on his head.

Bear reared up, huffing as he looked to his paws. An acorn. Somehow, an acorn had dropped onto his head and bounced onto the ground.

He narrowed his eyes, crawling closer and taking a long sniff.

“Wow,” a high-pitched voice called from behind him. “You _do_ have a big nose.”

The dog spun around, eyes wide as he stared at the creature on the garden fence. A silver she-cat balanced herself on the wood, her back grey and punctuated with long lines that scaled across her fur. Her snout was a fixture of white and grey, whiskers twitching as she sent Bear an amused look. Her silver tail spun around her paws which where splashed with white, the colour continuing up to her belly and chest.

“Sorry, did I disturb your very focused sniffing?” She asked, or rather laughed.

Bear pinned his ears back. “What are you doing on my fence?”

The cat cocked her head to the side. “Can’t an animal just grow… curious?”

Bear blinked. “Not your kind.”

She _mrrowed_, nodding her head after a while. “Alright, fair enough. I’ve come to investigate a rumour.”

“A rumour?”

A nod. “Word around the street is that you’re the biggest, baddest doggie here.”

Bear puffed his chest at the words, his body thrumming with pride until he saw the smug look the she-cat was giving him. “Okay. So?” he asked, a little too roughly.

“There are a lot of stories about you, how you’ve chased that really annoying mailman away, for example.”

“That one’s true,” Bear grinned. “I barked at him _once_ and he ran away in fear.”

“Well, that’s _one_ true fact.” She looked him up and down, her whiskers twitching even more. “And I think I have reason not to believe you on that, too.”

Bear spluttered. “What? Why would I be lying?”

“Uh, because I’ve been _watching you_,” the cat said, like it was obvious. She rolled her eyes. “Within the past three days, the most aggressive thing you’ve done is sneeze when you got your nose into some dust.”

Bear opened his mouth then closed it, looking like a fish. Then he narrowed his eyes. He smirked, asking, “you’ve been watching me?”

The she-cat’s eyes went wide, and she quickly started grooming her chest. “Did I say that?” She ran a paw over her ears, deliberately hiding her eyes. “I meant noticed.”

“Oh, you _noticed_, did you?”

“Shut up,” she hissed, exposing her fangs at him. When he didn’t react, she rolled her eyes and groaned. “Okay, fine. You’re pretty much the celebrity dog around here, and _maybe_ I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. But you’re clearly not living up to the hype, so whatever.”

Bear laughed, watching as she hurriedly cleaned herself. “What’s your name?”

The cat paused, looking at him with narrowed eyes. Eventually, she said, “Sadie.”

“Sadie?” She nodded. “I’m Bear.”

Sadie stared for a minute, then laughed. “Bear? Really? Okay, I can see why.”

He frowned as he looked down at himself. “What, why?”

Sadie snickered. “You’re massive, _Bear_. I bet you’re even taller than my owner.”

Bear raised a brow. “I feel like you’re slightly exaggerating, there.”

Sadie hummed, then jumped down from the fence. For the first time Bear noticed her swollen belly as she settled down next to him, reaching for her tail to groom it further.”

“You’re pregnant?”

Sadie glanced down, sending Bear a bemused look. “Either that or really fat.” She shrugged. “We’ll see in a couple weeks.”

“You’re really weird,” he said, then shifted forward. “Can you… can you feel them move?”

The she-cat sat up, wrapping her tail around her paws. She tilted her head to the side, eyes turning thoughtful. “Sometimes I get these little… feelings, I guess. Like when you eat too fast and your belly ripples and all that, you know?” Bear nodded. “Well, it’s that, but three times in a row. And almost every day. My owner always puts his hand on my belly.”

She turned her thoughtful gaze his way. “You wanna feel?”

Bear startled, blinking rapidly. “What? Oh – um, I, I wouldn’t want to… you know, I’d probably hurt you or something, um.”

“Please,” Sadie rolled her eyes. “Again, I’ve been watching you—,” Bear quirked a brow, “—_noticing_,” she said through gritted teeth, “what you’ve been doing. And I seriously doubt you could harm a fly.”

“I chase flies all the time.”

“I’m sure you do,” Sadie nodded patronisingly. “Anyways, if you wanna feel my kits, now would be prime because they’re kicking up a storm.”

Bear hesitated, then got up. He trotted over to Sadie who lay on her side, drawing her tongue along the pad of her paw, leaving her belly open to the sky. He took a breath, watching as the fur shifted – little dots rose and dipped every few second, like worms beneath the dirt, and it continued and cycled for several minutes.

He lifted a paw, looking to Sadie, but she was focused on her grooming once more. He slowly touched the stomach, jumping at the sensation of the tiny dots jumping to his touch. It was like they could sense him and increased their activity, fluttering under the skin every which way.

“You done?” Sadie asked, voice sleepy, and Bear jumped back. She yawned as she sat up. “How was it?”

“It was… weird.” Bear quickly hurried at the look Sadie sent him, saying, “I – I mean, the good kind of weird.”

“There’s a good kind of weird?”

He nodded. “Of course. And this, this is that. Like… it just felt so strange, like you had… mice under there or something.”

Sadie snorted. “Well, I sure hope it’s not mice. That would be a bit difficult to explain. Now,” she sighed, “I better get home. Ever since I got pregnant I’ve been getting really hungry, like, _all the time_.”

Sadie jumped up to the fence, wobbling a bit before righting herself. She waved her tail in goodbye and tensed to jump again when she stopped. Her head slowly turned back, avoiding Bear’s eyes and glued to her paws. “So, umm… I was wondering – you know, for _your_ benefit, if…”

“Would you like to come back tomorrow?” Bear asked, sound amused.

Sadie gave an explosive sigh. “Ugh, _fine_, if you insist. Stop begging, it’s not a good look on you. Oooh, before I leave, I have to know – is the story about you jumping up so high you caught a hawk true?”

Bear blinked.

“Ah,” Sadie nodded. “That must be one of the rumours then. Alright, I’m hungry so I’m gonna go. See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’ll be here.”

The she-cat smiled, waving her tail. “Okay, bye.”

“Bye!” Bear called, watching as she disappeared into the other side of the fence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
Research notes:  
**
> 
> • Okay, addressing some anatomy concerns – I _know_ cats can’t roll their eyes, or shrug, or raise brows, I get that. But I’m also a writer and I need to find ways to express character’s emotions which is incredibly hard with animals, so I’m taking some artistic licence.
> 
> • But on the topic of anatomy, pregnant cat anatomy! I’m a little versed in pregnancy in cats (no expert but I’ve had pregnant cats) so I’m pretty confident in my ability to write them. The next few paragraphs will be addressing all those pregnant cat things you see in this chapter.
> 
> • First off, it can actually happen that your cat doesn’t look pregnant. Whilst it’s true that cats usually have massive bellies due to having multiple kittens (my cats all had _such_ big bellies, my God) it is possible that if your cat has one or two kittens only, it can be hard to spot if they’re pregnant. I’ve known multiple people who didn’t know their cats were pregnant until they started giving birth, and other people who knew their cats were pregnant as soon as they got pregnant. Additionally, a view from the side makes it hard to see a cat’s pregnant belly so I imagine that’s why Bear didn’t see Sadie’s stomach.
> 
> • The kitten touch-y stuff is true! A cat’s belly looks so damn weird when their kittens are moving, you wouldn’t believe. Imagine you have a blanket – now take a finger under the blanket and draw it along the top (from under it still). See how it’s like a bump, moving to and thro? Well, imagine that on a cat’s stomach and you’ve got the picture. Same thing about the feeling of it, too. When our latest cat was pregnant I’d touch her stomach then immediately coil away, but it feels _weird as hell_. 
> 
> • More onto cats, but less of the pregnant stuff. Sadie grooms herself a lot in this because grooming! Is! Important! To cats, at least. Grooming is one of the only ways they keep clean, so they do it constantly. You know how people say cats sleep 2/3 of the day? Well, they spent the other third grooming, basically. On top of this, there’s kind of an agreement for writers who write stories from cats’ point of views about how cats express language, and grooming/licking is one of them. It’s not really based on fact, more like people trying to come up with stuff equivalent to human actions (for example blushing, crying, being amused, ect). The reason I’m saying this is because one of the accepted ‘signals’ for embarrassment is grooming the chest, which is why Sadie here licks her chest when she’s embarrassed. Again, not really based on actual fact – cats don’t groom their chests when embarrassed – just a made up language to project human emotions onto cats.
> 
> • Also, a cat’s belly is a vulnerable spot for them. Cats are solitary animals and so must protect themselves, and their stomach is where pretty much all of their vital organs are, which is why they have to protect it. If you’ve ever had a cat you’ll noticed that whenever they play with something they use their back legs to scrape along whatever is in front of them? That is the move they’d use to hunt prey, and their back legs would actually scrape along the animal’s stomach in order to kill them. This is why cats will lay their belly up to you – they’re showing you they trust you – but as soon as you go to scratch their belly, like you would a dog, they attack your hand. It’s because to them, hands anywhere near their belly means danger. This ties into my text because Sadie lies with her belly open to the sky in front of Bear. Now, it’s not belly-up so it’s not as vulnerable, but it still shows a great deal of trust to a dog she just met. Just a little tid-bit of knowledge here. :D
> 
> • As a side note, I was listening to _Good Doggie, No Bone!_ from ‘the Fox and the House 2’ when I was writing this. That song is seriously underrated. Go check it out, now!
> 
> _Word count: 1320._
> 
> _Blah blah, stuff about comments, you get the drill._


	8. Day eight - "Frail"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the way, I think this fic connects less to the prompt than the others do? Basically, frail = weak, weak = things can die, hence head plants.
> 
> Also this fic was super short because I have a history essay to write so I'm rushing through this - definitely one of my weaker ones but I have other things going on so sorry.

Celina sighed as she edged her thumb along another dead African Violet. The purple flower’s petals had shrivelled and darkened in colour, stooping towards the ground as if incredibly tired. This was the third one this week, and the flowers had suddenly turned all so quickly with barely any warning beforehand.

She stood and wiped a hand along her forehead, scrunching her nose at the sweat on her fingers. “That’s another one gone,” she mumbled to herself. “What is going on?”

“Magick, my dear.”

Celina jumped, heart racing as she spun around. She relaxed when she realised it just was Mr Johnson leaning on the garden fence, his moustache prickly and his smile wide. He was in his regular wifebeater, burnt skin dotted with freckles that showed he worked outside all day. The man was wearing that cap he’d received from his grandchildren a couple years ago, the ugly and ratty thing resurfacing every few months when he started to miss his family.

“Morning Mr Johnson,” Celina waved to him. “How are you today?”

“Please, call me Hector. And oh, just tippy-toppy,” the man replied, grinning even wider.

No matter how many years she’d known him, Celina refused to call him by his first name. And no matter how many times he insisted she changed, she never did. It was a habit and she held too much respect for the man to call him anything but his first name.

Mr Johnson continued. “One of my cows is jus’ a couple weeks away from foalin’ now, I reckon.”

Celina nodded easily. “Aaah, exciting!”

“Can’t imagine same’s for you, though.” He nodded over to the path of dead plants. “How’s long that’s been goin’ on?”

“About a week,” Celina said, sighing heavily. “I still don’t get why, there’ve been no serious pests in the area and it’s not animals eating them or anything.”

“That’s cause it’s no ordinary reason, my dear,” Mr Johnson whispered, leaning closer. “I told you – it’s magic.”

Celina narrowed her eyes, then laughed a bit. “Sure it is, Mr Johnson.”

“It’s true!” He cried, then rolled his eyes. “And for the last time, call me Hector.”

“Will do, Mr Johnson.”

He sent her an unimpressed look but shook his head after. “An’ I meant what I said, lassie. Those flowers, especially African Violets, are there to protect you.”

Celina sighed, then decided to play along. “Okay, if that’s true, then why are they dying? Surely it proves they’re _not_ working, _not_ protecting me?”

“They’re dyin’ because they _are_ protectin’ you,” Mr Johnson said, waving his finger around. “They’re absorbing harmful magick in the air, that’s why they’re dying.”

“Harmful magick?”

“Curses, hexes,” the old man explained. “You have them to thank for saving your life.”

Celina leaned away a bit, narrowing her eyes. “_Or…_ I have my potatoes to thank for feeding me, or my strawberries to thank for providing drinks. And honey for catching bees.”

“Of course,” Mr Johnson nodded. “But your flowers _also_ absorb your curses.”

Celina hesitated, then narrowed her eyes towards the fields. The individual flowers that got picked were nowhere near each other, so it couldn’t be a bug or a plant disease. And it was always the first in the row, like whatever had gotten to them stopped at that sole plant.

The girl turned back, looking at Mr Johnson with suspicious eyes. He raised his brows. “Well?”

Celina hummed, then said, “not buying it.”

The old man chuckled, then stepped away from the fence. “Alright, suit yourself. I’m gonna go visit my chikens now.”

She nodded and watched him walk away, then turned back to her crops. Later on in the evening she was sitting by her fireplace. It was weak and in an awkward position, making it difficult to put logs in, but it was plenty warm and always comforted Celina when she was feeling down. She was just scrolling through on her laptop when Mr Johnson’s words echoed in her head, and before she even realised, she was looking up African Violets on the internet.

Most of the articles were about how to grow the plant or the different variations. Eventually, however, she came across a Wiccan website – and then another, and more, and soon it seemed like there were endless Wiccan websites on African Violets. Celina hesitated, hovering her mouse over the link, before letting out a breath and clicking it.

She read the article, then blinked.

“Huh,” she said quietly. “Good for wading curses.”

The next day she’d ordered several aloes, multiple cilantro herbs, and even the seed to an oak tree. She planted them all around the front steps of her house, ignoring Mr Johnson’s smug looks as she got to work.

Within a week, all the plants were dead.

“Ooh,” Mr Johnson frowned. “Someone must really be holding a grudge ‘gainst you.”

“Could they kill me?” Celina asked nervously, fearing the answer.

But Mr Johnson just patted her on the shoulder and smiled. “Don’t be silly, of course not, the Lord and Lady don’t stand by that. They would just… tip the scales of luck a bit,” he explained. “Make you trip over your shoelaces a couple times.”

“It feels like you’re over-simplifying that.”

“Well, it don’t matter, does it?” Mr Johnson asked, getting ready to go back to his animals. “Because you have all those plants to protect you.”

Celina kept buying the same plants, and even more she’d found on the internet – all linked to protection. Then she began to buy different kinds. Some to do with luck, with love, she even brought one to attract wildlife.

A few weeks went by, and suddenly all her flowers stopped dying.

She’d stood out there for so long with her mouth agape that Mr Johnson actually climbed over the fence to click his fingers in her face. “You alright, dear?”

“It’s a miracle,” she told the old farmer. “It’s like whatever was harming them just… disappeared.”

“The curse was stopped,” Mr Johnson said, and Celina, who didn’t completely believe it but still liked the image of all those colourful flowers lining he front of her house, nodded humorously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
**Research notes**  

> 
> • Okay, so first off! Addressing the magick! No it’s not a mistake, yes that’s spelt like that on purpose. I’m Wiccan and that’s how we spell ‘magic’. There’s lots of Wiccan elements present in this story (as I feel most knowledgeable about that than any other magick-based religion) so I’ll be expanding on that in the next few bullet points.
> 
> • Point number one: plants. Wiccans believe plants carry energy than can help you. Afrian Violets, aloes, cilantro, and the oak tree are all associated with protection, as well with spirituality and other things like that. The actual idea of ‘plants absorbing curses’ came from a Tumblr post. Plants don’t necessarily _absorb_ curses, more like give off energy to ward them off. An easy way to explain would be like to imagine a candle. Candles usually have different colours, and these colours have connotations – for example, yellow connotes happiness. In Wiccan belief, if you do a ritual with a yellow candle you’re summoning ‘happy energy’ (for lack of a better word) and encouraging happiness to appear in your life. Same thing with plants: an aloe plant gives off ‘protection energy’ and so encourages protection against curses to appear in your life.
> 
> • Mr Johnson mentions the ‘Lord and Lady’ and these are deities that appear in Wicca. In Wicca, every witch can have their own deity they worship. You are not forced to worship one deity and instead can choose your own – for example, I worship Artemis because of her connection to womanhood, and being female is important to me, as well as her connection to LGBT, which is another important part of my identity. This means anyone can worship any deity, but there _are_ two main deities accepted and worship by practically all witches: the Triple Goddess and the Horned God. They’re the general gods and whilst have different associates to themselves (for example the Tripe Goddess is associated with the moon, and the Horned God with nature) they mainly represent divine feminine and masculine power. Both of these deities have several names to them, and Lord and Lady are popular names people use to they don’t have to say the super long names each time.
> 
> • Mr Johnson’s protest that the Lord and Lady (The Tripe Goddess and the Horned God) don’t approve of death is correct. Whilst death is accepted by Wiccans, death by ill intent especially when caused by magick isn’t. In essence, they disapprove of curses. Generally, the Wiccan community disapprove of curses. This is because of the Threefold Rule, sometimes known as the Law of Three. This basically states that whatever energy you put out into the world returns to you threefold, or three times as power. It’s like extreme karma. So if you send out good energy into the world – like casting a spell to heal a friend’s illness or something else like that – that good energy will come back to you even better than you sent it. The same, however, applies to any negative energy you send out – if you cast a curse on somehow to fall ill because you hate them, that negative energy is going to come back at you three times as strong. This is why most Wiccans disapprove of curses, because it will always come back to bite you. However, as with the gods, not all witches apply by the exact same code and so there are the occasional witches who believe cursing, when justified, is acceptable. I’m personally not one of those which is why I had Mr Johnson say what he did in my text.
> 
> • Alright, that’s enough of Wiccan knowledge, now onto the names! Mr Johnson’s first name, Hector, is the male variant of the name ‘Hecate’, who was the Greek goddess of magick. (His last name I came up with because I was listening to Jack Johnson when writing this, it has no relevance.) Celina’s name comes from two stems – first it’s a variant of the name Celeste which means moon, but the origin name comes from Caelius which was an old Roman family name derived from the word ‘caelum’ which meant heaven. Either way, Celina’s name connects to magick-y things and so the theme of magick names continues!
> 
> _Word count: 1023._
> 
> _Another call for comments and kudos! Comments really help encourage me to write more and I honestly think I need that because (mixed with all my upcoming exams) this challenge is quite… well… challenging. Anyways, feel free to point out any mistakes seeing as I have no time to do so myself, and thanks for reading!_


	9. Day nine - "Swing"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is super short because I'm very busy. It also sucks for the same reason. Anyway, enjoy.

There’s a swing in a park. In some tiny, insignificant English town. But it’s a swing nonetheless. It swings to the right, and it swings to the left, carrying the laughter of children with it.

It isn’t the first swing to be in the park. The first swing was set up long before even the idea of God was created, when men had just discovered how to make and mould and make things oh-so pretty. Then were more swings – swings that fell in the same day, swings with burnt wood, swings with thick rope, swings with tires.

Whenever an old swing would fall down, it wouldn’t take long before another came in its place. It was almost like the people of the town just _couldn’t_ not have a swing in the park. Maybe, they’d gotten so used to the image of one there that they insisted on having one permanently.

And perhaps, one day, there _will_ be a day where one swing lasted for a long, long time. For years, decades, centuries. Maybe they’ll install a swing that would never have to be replaced.

But for now, there’s a swing in the park. It’s got thick rope that’s frizzing, and a tire that has one too many holes in it. It shifts with the wind and weakens the branch its on, but it’s a swing, and it completes its purpose.

To provide fun.

For kids to jump on it and laugh, to challenge each other on how high they can jump to the ground. For teens to sneak away to, laugh into their lover’s mouths and hold hands between the seats. For adults to sit on and watch the sunset, calm and content, looking back into their lives and their sweet memories.

Everyone in the town loves the swing. It’s always been there, hasn’t disappeared for longer than two years at most, and is the first place people go to when they return for a visit. Tourists come to swing for a bit, and kids even did school projects on the history of swings, and this specific swing. Anyone who broke the swing got severe backlash and had to put it back up themselves, for which they’d be celebrated as a hero and the cycle would continue.

Sometimes, people love the swing too much. So much that they’d stick around, after their time. Ask any kid and they’ll spout to you endless stories about ghosts and ghouls they’ve seen at the swing. Teens and adults will laugh it off, but that little seed of doubt in their mind will never go away. The elderly will just wink and tell you that you should always respect people older than you, leaving you with the feeling that they just made a joke you didn’t get.

The swing has been around for centuries. It is still around, and will be around for eons longer. Even if all the trees die out, if all of the world gets taken over by toxic chemicals – the swing will still live on. 

Because the dead must keep at least _one_ thing from their past lives the same, and they’ve chosen the swing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
Research notes:  
**
> 
> • First off, sorry! For several reasons! Number one is that this story is so short, and number two is that these notes are short (and very late) too. Yesterday I was very busy and had basically no time so I just spat this out and hoped for the best. Notes had to come today because I’m actually free today, so yay! Can’t say the same for future chapters, though, so we’ll see.
> 
> • As I said, I just came up with the story and barfed it onto my laptop, so I didn’t do much research. I did, however, look into how long swings have been a thing, and it has been _a while_. Swings date back to the BCs and are features in several historical paintings, pottery, ect. There’s lots of images online about historical people on swings – kids in the Victorian eta, teens during WW2, paintings of medieval kids playing on swings, ect. It’s actually quite interesting so I may do a little more research on that later on.
> 
> _Word count: 525 (sorry, again!)_


	10. Day ten - "Pattern"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're going back to the 17th Century, with a much bigger focus on witchcraft. Also I love writing historical stuff because I can write more historical notes! (My actual notes were too long for the end notes so I had to cut them down, check out the comments where I explain it a bit more.) Okay, enjoy.
> 
> Also, as a warning, this chapter takes place in the 17th Century and so the characters within this have very prejudiced beliefs about poor people. I in no way condone these thoughts but I wanted to keep the text authentic to the context in which it takes place. Within this, several characters make derogatory notes towards people with no money and even wish harm upon them.
> 
> I 100% disagree with this and I want to make it clear, but in the 1600s this is what most people thought. I wanted to keep the story true to its origins but it does not mean that it is the right way to think now.

Marjorie sighed as Daniel continued to cry in her arms, his little face scrunched up and tears spilling down his cheeks. She felt his forehead but the temperature hadn’t gone down any – instead, it’d gotten even worse.

Bouncing didn’t help him any, and by the time the maid entered the room she let out a very loud and very relieved sigh. “Cecily, thank the Lord,” she said as she quickly handed over her son. “I’ve gotten the biggest headache over the past twenty minutes – can you please take care of him for me?”

“Of course,” Cecily said, wincing at Daniel’s cry. “You’ve been cooped up in the house for days, Miss. You should go out and get some fresh air.”

Marjorie smiled as she touched her temple. “I swear, Cecily, you are the hardest working person I’ve ever met.”

The woman’s smile dimmed a bit, and she glanced to her feet. “Well, we all do what we must. Go on, Miss, I’ll handle Daniel.”

Marjorie didn’t hesitate to leave. Roger would accuse her of being a lousy mother later but that was later, not now, and right now she just wanted a few moments of peace. 

She ran into the girls along the river. Their dresses were colourful and wide, curled hair slightly losing its weight, and when they saw Marjorie they squealed and flocked to her.

“Mary!” Elizabeth cried, grabbing the woman’s hand. “Where have you _been_, goodness – it’s been so quiet without you around.”

Inagret and Sarah nodded. “It’s true,” Sarah said. “I can’t believe Roger’s kept you locked in that house for almost a week now, how horrid.”

“It’s actually been Daniel,” Marjorie said as she sighed.

Inagret raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear, what’s wrong? He’s not sick is he?”

Marjorie fiddled with her hands. “A fever, we think. It’s just all so sudden – we’ve kept him safe and sound, he’s been near no ill people or animals. It’s like it came out of nowhere.”

When Marjorie looked up, the three girls were trading way looks.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing,” Elizabeth said quickly, “it’s just… Do you remember last week? When old Rosamund came knocking at your door?”

Marjorie frowned. Rosamund was one of the eldest women in the village, and last week she’d visited their house begging for money. Marjorie had no problem sending her away – all she had to do was whisper the word _vagabond_ and point to a nearby guard who was patrolling the streets. Marjorie wasn’t useless – she didn’t need Roger to save her at every turn, if there was anything she was good at it was putting the poor in their place.

Rosamund had given her the coldest stare she’d ever seen and turned away with a mutter under her breath. They hadn’t seen the woman since, and part of Marjorie had hoped the old woman succumbed to the cold. Their country didn’t need any more beggars wandering the street.

“What about it?” Marjorie asked.

“Well,” Inagret said, leaning closer forward. “Think about it. You reject her begging, then a week later your baby gets sick?”

Marjorie’s blood ran cold. “You,” she swallowed. “You don’t think…”

Sarah hurried in response. “Everyone knows that woman is strange, it’s no secret – what with all those herbs she’s growing in her gardens, and her talking to birds. She’s got moles all over her face!”

“And,” Inagret added, “a couple months ago _I_ sent her away for begging, and guess what happened? One of our cows died not two weeks later.”

Elizabeth nodded, then placed a hand on Marjorie’s shoulder. “Think about it, dear. It all makes sense, doesn’t it?”

Marjorie sighed, then stared at her hands. “Rosamund is a witch.”

“A dirty witch,” Inagret spat suddenly. “Targeting a tiny babe like that, how could anyone ever do such a thing?”

“You should say something,” Sarah insisted, pushing at Marjorie’s shoulder. “Tell the parish constable. Maybe he’ll hire that Hopkins man, the one we’ve seen in pamphlets.”

“Why can’t you?” Marjorie asked.

“Roger is higher in status than any of our husbands,” Elizabeth said. “The authorities are more likely to believe him than anyone else. And you must!” She shouted, shooting forward. “Imagine the damage that old witch could do if we let her wander around without punishment. You could put more babies in danger, Mary.”

“Gosh, I’d never!” Marjorie cried. “I didn’t even think of that – why didn’t I think of it? It’s so obvious in hindsight!”

“You were busy with Daniel,” Sarah said soothingly, stroking Marjorie’s arm. “Look at you – you’re stressed, it’s hurting my eyes. Come, let’s have a drink.”

“No, I must find Roger immediately.” Marjorie shook her head, stepping back. “Thank you, ladies, really – but I can’t imagine Daniel suffering any further. I need to deal with this witch as soon as possible.”

“Good woman,” Inagret smiled. “You’re already a splendid mother.”

Marjorie sighed, hugging her friends before running back home. She entered the nursery hurriedly, sighing in relief as she heard the quiet in the room. Daniel was still fussing but it looked like he was finally settling down, Cecily having just put him in his crib when Marjorie walked in.

“Miss, what’s wrong? You look worried.”

“Do you know when Roger’s back? I need to talk to him.”

“He should be back from business in a few hours,” Cecily said, stepping away from the baby. “Is it serious?”

Marjorie took a breath, then looked her maid in the eye. “I know what’s wrong with Daniel. _It was a witch._”

Cecily’s eyes widened. “Oh, Lord help us,” she whispered weakly. “Someone tried to attack a _child_?”

“Simply because I refused to lend her money!” Marjorie yelled, wincing when Daniel stirred. She waited a few moments before putting her head in her hands. “Why does God punish me so? What have I done so wrong?”

“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself, Miss,” Cecily said as she put a hand around Marjorie’s shoulder. “It’s not you – ever since the Tudors caused all that turmoil with the church God has been angry. He hates all this blatant evil walking around, all those Catholics consorting with the devil.

“You did nothing wrong,” Cecily said. “And when you tell Roger, he’ll have it handled in no time and you’ll never have to see that rotten witch again.”

“I hope so,” Marjorie said as she wandered towards a chair in the corner. “Daniel’s fever combined with this revelation has made me feel like my head’s exploding.”

“Do you want me to send for a doctor?”

“No, no, it’s fine.” The woman stood, brushing off her dress and pecking Daniel on the head. “I think I’ll go to bed, just for a bit. Wake me up when Roger comes home?”

“Of course, Miss,” Cecily nodded. “Right away.”

Marjorie started at her son for a while, then walked to her bedroom. Rosamund would _die_ before she ever laid a hand on another child again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
**  
Research notes:  
• Witchcraft, again. And I’m more educated on it this time! Yes, witchcraft was around during the 1500s but not taken too seriously. It was officially turned into a crime under the rule of the Tudors, Henry VIII most of all, but this stance was strengthened by James I when he wrote the _Daemonlogie_. Witches were often old women with no husbands, though some men did get accused. Witchfinders arose, men who practised in finding and trialling witches – the most famous one of all being Matthew Hopkins. Fear of witches came about due to a series of religious changes started during Henry VIII’s reign and continued for centuries on – the monarchs continuously changed the religion from catholic to protestant, different forms of Christianity, and people were afraid it would upset God. They also started to hate the other side because the monarchs introduced severe punishments against any heresy – crimes against a country’s religion -, for example Mary I executed 300 protestants. This fear and nervousness made people blow _anything_ against God into a far bigger problem than it previously would have done, leading to an increased fear of witchcraft.
> 
> • Relating to witchcraft again, the things they say about Rosamund would have been proof she was a witch. If you grew herbs it was a sign you were a witch as it was seen as magical and unnatural (which makes it so much more ironic). Familiars were animals suspected to have helped witches with their magic. And despite what movies taught you, it’s not just cats – familiars ranged from cats to dogs, mice, birds, and even flies. Because most accused witches were old women with no families, they often adopted animals as a form of companionship and would talk to the animals or themselves, which only proved them as witches even more. Moles, spots, and scars were seen as ‘devil’s marks’ from which familiars would suck blood. In reality, the poor conditions of the 1600s made these kinds of things all the more common, but they were seen as a sign that you were doing the devil’s deeds.
> 
> • Matthew Hopkins was a _Witchfinder General_ which meant he went around accusing people of witchcraft. It was often old women because they had no husbands to stand up for them, and most of the town or village had already ostracised them. Hopkins was popular despite being in business for less than five years, executing +100 witches. News of his work spread through towns and cities and people would hire him to get rid of suspected witches in their own homes.
> 
> • The scene where Marjorie sends Rosamund away includes her threatening the woman with the word ‘vagabond’. This is in reference to the crime of vagabondage, which was the crime of wandering around jobless and asking for money. Also known as vagrancy, the accused were called vagabonds or vagrants and was made to be quite serious in the late 1500s. There were several variations of punishments for vagabondage including slavery, capital punishment, and execution. In actuality, lots of English people didn’t mind helping out anyone they’d known for years, or people who had physical injuries preventing them from work, but they were very suspicious when it was strangers begging. Especially when people had no physical injuries and it was thought they were faking.
> 
> • Women roles, my favourite part! First off, women were expected to not only be mothers, but also devoted mothers. Roger would tell Marjorie off not only because she’s denying her duty, but because it would also reflect badly off him as he looks like he has an inattentive wife. Linking back to witchcraft, reputation definitely had something to do with who was accused and could be accused. Only well-respected people of a village could claim someone was a witch without being waved off. If it was Rosamund who’d claimed Marjorie was a witch, the town would have shrugged it off because Marjorie was a well-respected woman with a high status, good husband, a newborn. Rosamund, on the other hand? She would have been an old woman with no husband, no sons, and, evidently, no job. That would have automatically turned the town against her. Whilst in reality Marjorie could have gone to the parish constable and reported it herself, it would sound more trustworthy coming from her husband than from her, and they would have dealt with it quicker.
> 
> • I have less to say on the working class, or Cecily in this case. Maids would often help with child duties – it’s perhaps a little unrealistic to have Marjorie be so close to Cecily because in reality the rich more or less hated the poor, but I decided to forgo that for dramatic purposes.
> 
> _Word count: 1161._
> 
> _Comments! Kudos! I love them, so please send some more!_


	11. Day eleven - "Snow"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's pretty short which makes me sad because I had a lot of fun writing it.
> 
> Just as a warning, this chapter is a bit more mature than the others as it contains swearing and mentions adult relationship... uh, _acts_ we'll say. Enjoy nonetheless!

Anthony huffed as the sun creeped in through the bedroom curtains, pulling the duvet over his face. On the other side of the bed was a whine, and suddenly a hand smacked his duvet-covered face.

“You’re stealing the blankets, asshole,” Shaun’s sleepy voice grumbled.

Anthony shrugged, eyes still closed. “I’m cold.”

“Put on a scarf and fuck off.”

Anthony snorted, opening a single eye to see Shaun faced towards him, his hands holding what remained of the duvet on his side of the bed with a death-like grip. “You really are the kindest boyfriend, do you know that?”

“I really should get an award,” Shaun grumbled, then shoved at Anthony’s shoulder.

The man rolled his eyes but got up, just barely resisting the temptation to take the duvet with him. He padded into the kitchen, mumbling to himself as he thought about the day ahead of him. Anthony rubbed his eyes as he turned on the kettle, got the toast started, and fished for the TV remote. He leaned back against the counter and yawned, turning the TV onto the first channel that looked interesting.

But less than a minute later he didn’t remember a single word they’d spoken, because his attention was on the window next to him.

The one showing snow outside.

Like, a _lot_ of snow.

Anthony blinked. Then checked his phone. Nope, he wasn’t wrong – it _was_ still the middle of July.

Huh.

Snow.

In July.

…

Huh.

Anthony frowned, walking over to the door leading to the garden. He hesitated before opening it, and as soon as he did it was slammed shut again.

Jesus _Christ_, was it cold! Cold! In July! In summer! In America!

Why was it cold, in July, in summer, in America?

He took a step back, then sighed. “Shaun?” He yelled, and the man’s grunt could be heard through the apartment. “Why is it snowing outside?”

A moment of silence, then the jump of a pillow on the ground. “_What?_”

“It’s snowing,” Anthony replied. “Outside. In July.”

A pause. “Are we still in America?”

Anthony snorted. “As far as I know.”

Shaun emerged from the bedroom, his hair in wild abandon and the grumpiest scowl on his face. He wore the duvet around his shoulders, squinting at the outside world. “Oh, wow. You weren’t hallucinating.”

“I’m not quite sure about that,” Anthony said, then sighed. “This is something to do with your damn magic, isn’t it.”

It wasn’t a question, and Shaun shrugged. “Probably.”

“This isn’t a _shrug situation_, Shaun,” Anthony said, baffled at the man’s casual response to literally _making it snow outside in July._

He felt like he didn’t need to repeat the other points.

“I thought you had that under control now?”

“It’s a lot more difficult than it looks,” Shaun grumbled as he reached to make himself some coffee. “I have my ups and downs, okay? It’s not just a straight line the whole time.”

“Well I think that’s fair, you’ve never done a straight thing in your life,” Anthony joked, then made a face. “But making it snow is a _down_?”

“At least it’s not a blizzard.”

Anthony shook his head as he pulled out his phone, scrolling through it for a few minutes before groaning loudly. “Look at the news - everyone’s freaking out. It’s reaching the _whole_ of California, Shaun. Holy crap.”

“You know,” Shaun said as he inhaled his coffee, “this is probably because I used magic during sex.”

Anthony’s neck snapped up, his eyes narrowed. “No, shut your mouth, now. We’re not talking about this.”

Shaun smirked. “What? Are we not talking about _how much you liked it?_”

“Fuck off,” Anthony rolled his eyes, shoving Shaun’s shoulder with his hand only for it to be caught by Shaun’s own hand. “I have to leave for work in less than half an hour, seriously, let go!”

“What a workaholic,” Shaun said as he pulled his boyfriend in for a kiss. “Have I mentioned how much I love that?”

“Shaun, you hate every person at my office.”

“Well, they’re were assholes _first!_”

“Also, it’s still snowing outside.”

“I’ll heal with it later.”

Anthony snorted hysterically. “No, you will not, you will deal with it now or I’ll withhold sex for a full month.”

Shaun raised a brow. “You’d never deprive yourself of me.”

“Last night, I watched you spill toothpaste on your jeans.”

“Totally irresistible,” he said, wrapping a hand around Anthony’s waist and whining when he pulled away. “Okay, seriously, you suck.”

“I won’t if you don’t fix the snowing,” Anthony said, unable to stop his grin.

His boyfriend glared at the window. “I don’t get what the big deal is, kids are probably loving a snow day.”

“It’s snowing! In July! In summer!”

Shaun rolled his eyes and groaned for almost a full minute before finally putting his coffee down. “Fine, whatever.”

“And by the time I’m home from work, there better not be a single drop of snow outside!”

Shaun flipped him the bird over his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Research notes: **
> 
> • Sorry this is so short. I’m trying to aim for a minimum of 1000 words for my texts but sometimes I feel like they fit best when they’re short. I couldn’t think of making this any longer without drawing it out or adding another plot point which probably would have gotten me to write _waaaaay_ more and I’m currently busy with something, so this’ll have to do.
> 
> • Romance is my element! I feel like romance is the easiest genre to write in because it has a relatively simple lot – the plot of every romance is the same: will these two (or more) characters get together or not? With stuff like adventure, sci-fi, horror ect you can have multiple story lines and also have to develop those outside of the characters, so it’s a lot more complicated in terms of plot. Not to say that romance is a lesser fiction, but just that I find it easier to write and use it to practise my skills more than any other genre. Which I think you can really see how easily I treat these characters because romance is my comfort zone. My current project is a romance in a school, and the only reason it’s taking me so long is because I want to make sure I represent a character of colour correctly before writing any more. So yeah, I enjoyed this one because I was once more back in my element.
> 
> • I’m also starting to branch out into comedy writing. The aforementioned current project is also a comedy text, so I decided to use this so practise. Hopefully it made someone laugh (in other words, nose exhale – let’s all be honest) but meh.
> 
> • We got more gays! I already included some lesbians but they were secondary characters, with one half of the relationship not even physically showing up in the chapter, so I decided it was time for some gay action once again. I actually planned to have these two characters in the previous chapter, under the prompt “pattern,” with it being a thing where one character was a police officer and the other a supernatural, and the “pattern” was that the officer was noticing things happening on the fool moon, for example, with the supernatural very badly covering it up. But then I got attached to the idea of a witchcraft storyline so I decided to go with that one, and move the gay characters into today’s chapter.
> 
> • Shaun is actually based on the character of Shaun Hastings from _Assassin’s Creed_. Shaun is one of my favourite names (I have a friend called Sean and I’m super bitter he spells it like that but whatever, it’s his name I guess) so I already wanted to use it, and I definitely wanted one of the characters to be a Too Tired For This Shit™ kind of person, with the other being all jokey and high energy. I originally planned for it to be the Tired Dad Kind that discovers the snow, with the jokey one having done the magic, but when I gave the character Shaun his name the personalities switch because Shaun Hastings from AC is grumpy. I personally think it works better this way, actually, so hooray! Anthony isn’t based off anyone, but if it helps the name reminds me of Crowley from _Good Omens_, so? I guess that’s something?
> 
> • Also, just as a note, if you haven’t figured it out yet I’m British. Which means that whenever I write a story based in America I am very aware of all the British vocabulary/slang I use and I’m like ‘aaaahhh’. Do you guys call it a duvet? Is it still a kettle over there? I want to say yes but I also don’t want to get yelled at, so deal with it. Why did I set it in America, you ask? Thanks for the question! But because it, honestly, is kind of a possibility that it may snow in July? Like, don’t get me wrong, global warming has really fucked Great Britain over and every time the summer comes around I want to jump off a building because it’s so God damned hot, but it also regularly snows in March and sometimes even May so?? Whatever.
> 
> _Word count: 837._
> 
> _As always, feel free to comment and kudos! Even if you’re a guest, it still works. Any mistakes can be pointed out, I won’t get offended, just comment them down below and I’ll sort them out. Thanks!_


	12. Day twelve - "Dragons"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was just a massive excuse to write about Vikings, I just more-or-less shoehorned dragons in at the end and called it a day. I've had stories connect to the prompts less, though, so it's cool.
> 
> Here are some definitions you might not recognise:
> 
> Thralls \- one of the three socio-economic classes in viking society. They were the lowest and were also slaves - often kidnapped from other countries and made to complete chores around the house.
> 
> Hel's hall \- the opposite of Valhalla (look below if you don't know this). Whilst brave warriors would die and go to Valhalla, warriors who hesitated to fight would go to Hel's hall, also known simply as Hel.
> 
> Valhalla \- a kind of Norse heaven. Warriors who died in battle would end up in Valhalla.
> 
> Hnefatafl \- a common Norse board game with a board similar to chess.
> 
> Maer \- what unmarried women over 20 were referred to. Alternative is _mey_.
> 
> Anything else will be explained in the notes. Enjoy!

The day was cold and brittle, but it did not affect the excitement buzzing in the Bjarneson house. _Thralls_ moved in and out of the building, carrying food, candles, jewellery and more between them. The household was filled with the sound of harps and lyres, the sound echoing through all the rooms. Smells of fish and meat seeped into every wall, escaping through open windows and reaching a group of boys playing outside.

They slashed each other with their wooden swords, pretending they were defeating their enemies and protecting their tribes. Onlookers watched amusedly before carrying on with their day, not minding the loud noise the games provided.

Their fun was cut short when their mother leaned through an open door. “Get inside already,” Alvilda sighed. “This is the fourth time I’m asking you – don’t make me come out there.”

“Got it, Mama,” Eirik called, slashing his siblings one more time. “The Saxons are no match for me, anyway!”

“Maybe not the Saxons,” Magnus cried as he leapt forward with his sword, “but what about me!”

The boys squealed as they chased each other, their third brother watching with a smirk. Fiske waved a thumb towards the house. “Mama’s gonna kill you if you don’t get inside, you know.”

“She can’t touch me!” Eirik said as he lifted his sword into the air. “I have the power of Thor behind my blade!”

“Please,” Magnus snorted. “You’d end up in Hel’s hall as soon as you stepped foot onto the battleground. No, _I’m_ the greatest fighter in the world. And I can prove it!”

He got ready to charge once more when the door slammed open again, Alvilda’s angry face peeking through.

“Do I really have to ask five times?” She growled. “It is your sister’s _birthday_, show some respect to her! Is that so much to ask?”

“Kind of,” Magnus said, ducking when his mother playfully swiped at his head.

“Just get inside before your salmon goes cold, eh?”

The boys tumbled in after her, breathing in the delicious smell of food. The open room held a fire in the middle, next to which sat a table filled with porridge, bread, berries, and much more. _Thralls_ continued to set more food down, throwing logs into the fire as they passed. There was also a game of _Hnefatafl_ set up, the black and white pieces already moved as if someone was in the middle of playing.

“Did you already start the game?” Eirik whined as he sat down.

“Your sister and I got bored whilst you were outside messing around,” Alvilda said with a raised brow. “Maybe if you wanted to play, you should have come in when I told you to.”

Magnus sighed as he reached for a fish from the table. “And you know Solvi won’t let us join in now, even as groups.”

At that moment a figure walked down the stairs. “I heard you complaining about me,” Solvi said as she came into the room. “What have I done now?”

Her hair was done neatly into a braid and her dress was made of a rich blue silk, sweeping down to her knees. Her necklace was bright and beautiful, arm rings shaped like dragons adorning each of her biceps.

Alvilda cooed as she stood to hug her daughter. “You look beautiful, darling. I told you not to worry about that dress.”

“You think?” Solvi asked, smiling bashfully as she glanced down at her body. “What about the necklace? It’s the one Papa gave me from his last trip.”

Their mother smiled as she held it in her hand. “Stunning. Bjarne would be so proud of you right now, if he were home.”

Eirik interrupted their moment by raising his hand. He waved it about, loudly saying, “I still don’t get _why_ this year is such a big deal. It’s just another birthday. It’s just _Solvi’s_ birthday.”

Solvi punched him in the arm, but it was Fiske who answered his question. “Our sister is turning twenty today. She’s finally old enough to be an adult in the eyes of the law.”

“That’s _maer_ to you, now” she said cheekily. “And the first thing I’m doing as a woman of my own is moving away from you boys, that’s for definite.”

They all grinned at her as their mother whined. “Oh, we’ll miss you so much! Can’t you wait a year, at least? Do you really want to leave your dear mother in a house with a bunch of boys?”

Solvi laughed. “You still have the _thrall_, if you’re really desperate.”

Alvilda scrunched up her nose. “Gods, I think I’d die before I subjected myself to one of their company.”

They laughed, but before they could continue their conversation Magnus let out a loud sigh. “Okay, cool, Solvi’s old now and all that. When are we getting to the _stories_?!”

“Oooh, oooh,” Eirik cried, sitting up in his seat. “Yeah, I wanna hear stories! You tell the best stories, Mama!”

Even Fiske looked excited, glancing at their mother hopefully.

Alvilda narrowed her eyes in thought before lifting her hands in defeat. “Alright, fine. Settle down, grab some mead, and be quiet for once, okay?”

All the children sat opposite Alvilda, quietly buzzing in their seats as they glanced at each other.

The woman took a breath before starting her story. “A long time ago, there was a man. He was a strong man, and he—”

“Is this about the gods?” Eirik interrupted.

“Of course not, she said _man_,” Magnus pointed out, just barely resisting adding on a very rude _’duh’_ at the end of it.

“Is it poetry?” Solvi asked.

Magnus shook his head. “Uh, no, please no! I have poetry, it’s so boring.”

“It’s not that bad,” Fiske said. “Depends who wrote it, I guess.”

“I like the skaldic ones.”

“_Boring_!”

“You’re boring!”

“Oooh, is it about Leif Erikson?”

“_ENOUGH!_”

The children flinched as their mother yelled, rolling her eyes viciously. “My Gods, do you want a story or not? Why did you ask me if you’re just going to keep interrupting me?”

Magnus pointed a finger at Eirik. “He started it!”

Solvi bit her lip. “I get privileges because it’s my birthday, right?”

Alvilda threw her head back and groaned. “Valhalla, take me now, I beg.” She looked down, narrowing her eyes as her children avoided her gaze. “Will you all be quiet now?”

“Yes, Mama,” Fiske nodded. “Go on.”

“Good.”

Alvilda cleared her throat, and then she began her story.

Today’s theme was _dragons_. Dragons, large and small, ferocious and cowardly – all no match for brave Vikings. She told of the Midgard Serpent, Jormungandr, and how his poison would spell the death for Thor. She told the story of Níðhǫggr and how he gnawed on one of the three roots of Yggdrasill, the roots trapping him from the real world. She told of Fáfnir, who started out as human but was cursed to be a dragon due to his own greediness, eventually being killed by the heroic Sigurd.

By the end of the stories, Eirik was almost asleep. He watched as Solvi grabbed her paints and began painting figures of dragons squaring up against mortal men, humming lightly under her breath as she did so.

_I hope one day I’m strong enough to fight a dragon_, he thought as he drifted off. _Maybe that’s what Papa is doing right now, sailing on his boats and conquering lands. One day, I’ll be stronger than any every dragon in the world._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
**Research notes:**  

> 
> • So originally I was going to do another Anglo-Saxon story because dragons fit well into that time period, but I’ve already done two stories in that time period so I wanted to do something different. Then yesterday I read some leaks about the upcoming Assassins’ Creed game – Kingdom, and how it’s going to take place in the Viking era. So I got really excited and basically just used this as an excuse to write about Vikings! I kind of just shoved in dragons at the end because I forgot I’m actually supposed to be writing about a prompt, so. Whoops? Anyways.
> 
> • As another note, I wanna mention that Vikings are a subject that I am NOT educated on! I got most of my information from Wikipedia, but I did also visit other sites and grab some history books from my dusty bookshelves to double check. If you see anything wrong with my text, if I’m talking about something that didn’t exist or I’m explaining it wrong, please do let me know.
> 
> • First up, I gotta talk about the dates. The Viking age is usually agreed to be from the late 700s until the Norman conquest of England in 1066, and I’m pretty sure my text fits into this. First off, Leif Erikson is mentioned and he was around 970-1020 which is way before 1066, so my reference checks out. Further more, _Prose Edda_ was written in the early 13th Century and was a book that compiled a bunch of Norse mythology – this means that the mention of the dragons I go on about is factually correct because they must have existed before the 1200s in order for Snorri Sturluson, the author, to write about them. I don’t have a concrete year to place this in, and 1020-1200 is a massive time slot, so apologies but I don’t have enough knowledge of Vikings to be able to accurately place this story.
> 
> • Moving onto society! Viking society was split into three socio-economic classes: thralls, karls, and jarls. Thralls were at the bottom and slaves often kidnapped from other countries. They completed household chores, hence the bringing of the food in my story, and were also looked down upon by the other classes, hence Alvilda’s comment. Karls were next in line and were free peasants, able to own land, farms ect but also had to work on them themselves. Jarls were at the top and were the aristocracy of the Viking society and were involved in politics, sport, hunting, and went abroad on expeditions. I place the family present here as jarls because they use slaves, the father is away on an expedition, and also Solvi’s dress suits the clothes typically worn by jarls.
> 
> • Women, my favourite part! Viking laws were really equal on women which was awesome as hell – an unmarried woman could inherit property and also be he head of the family if there were no men present in the household. Married women could also divorce their husbands and remarry, and had he same rights as an unmarried woman – who, after turning tweny, had the right to decide her place of residence and was ‘regarded as her own person before the law’. On top of this, it was socially acceptable for a woman and a man to live together and have kids without being married. These kids weren’t treated any differently from children conceived within marriage. I originally planed for Alvilda and Bjarne to be in one of these marriage-less relationships but saw no way to mention it without throwing the story off.
> 
> • Vikings had a lot of different food including porridge, bread, fruits and vegetables, and spices. On top of this, though, was sea food – in fact, in some places it was even considered more important. Sea food included things like seals, walruses, shrimps, salmon, herring, ect. Jarls had access to “rich” food and, within celebrations, could provide a lot of guests with a lot of food.
> 
> • Vikings loved to celebrate and hold feasts. A lot of these featured music in the background, often played with instruments like lutes, harps, and lyres. It was common for jarls to have music in their celebrations because it was seen as an art form. They would also commonly have board games, such as the aforementioned hnefatafl and even chess.
> 
> • Onto the names! It’s actually quite hard to find date-specific names during the Viking era, did you know that? I’m assuming it’s because nobody really took any records – unlike in the Anglo-Saxon times, in which the Doomesday book was used to record notes of names and places ect. I just had to look up ‘Viking names’ on Google and pick some nice ones. All the names present in the text are accurate, as far as I can tell. I was also planning to give some of the slaves Saxon names but there never came a need to name them so I didn’t bother.
> 
> _Word count: 1254._
> 
> _As always, please leave some comments and kudos as it really cheers me up and gives me the motivation to keep going with this (very tiring) challenge. Thank you for reading!_


	13. Day thirteen - "Ash"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place in the Italian Renaissance, so yaaayyy! I was originally going to have this story take place _whilst_ the fire was happening and have the main character try to go in and save her parents, but after deciding she'd be a nun I realised she'd wouldn't be able to reach the house in time (or even hear about it in time).
> 
> Some definitions as quite a lot of the words here are in Italian (feel free to correct any translations, by the way):
> 
> Veil \- the headgear that nuns wear, colour was based on whether you finished your training or not (in more detail down in the notes).
> 
> Sorella \- Italian for "sister", what nuns are referred to.
> 
> Venezia \- Italian for "Venice", an Italian city.
> 
> Firenze \- Italian for "Florence", an Italian city.
> 
> Guelfi neri \- Italian for "Black Guelphs", one of the main parties in Renaissance Italy who supported the Pope. The opposing party was "White Guelphs" which is what Antonia is, and her parents were.
> 
> Puttane \- Italian for "whores".
> 
> Ghibelli \- Italian for "Ghibellines". Originally the Guelphs were one faction, with their enemies being the Ghibellines.

Fiora stared at the remains of the burnt villa. What used to be beautiful, smooth peach walls were now tarred with dark grey ash, cracks etched into every brick and stretching endlessly. She could still smell the smoke in the air, could imagine the screams of her parents as they realised the flames blocked all viable exits.

She clenched her fists, trying to quiet her breathing. The white veil surrounding her head made it harder to breathe but she just looked to the sky instead, wondering where God was when her family’s villa burnt to the ground.

“Fiora!” a voice behind her called, and she turned to see her sister stepping out a litter and running towards her.

It was like her chest had been being squeezed, but as soon as she saw Antonia air was returned to her. She breathed out a sigh of relief, already holding her arms out even before Antonia hugged her. They held each other for several moments, clinging to the other’s arms. Fiora could feel Antonia’s tears touch her temple and breathed out shakily, pulling back to kiss her sister’s cheeks.

“I haven’t seen you in so long,” Fiora said, stepping back.

“It’s that convent,” Antonia said, a fragile smile on her face. “They’re keeping you away from your family.”

Fiora shrugged. “I only have two years left of training – after that, they should be more lenient.”

It was no secret that the convents kept their nuns more-or-less locked inside of the monastery until they completed their training. The previous two years had been hell, with Fiora only getting to see her family a number of times and only for celebratory occasions – the last time she’d seen her parents was several months ago, and they parted like they always did. No special goodbye, no longing hug. No, of course they didn’t – how could they have known that it would have been the last time they’d see each other?

A cleared throat drew Fiora out of her head, and she looked over Antonia’s shoulder to see her husband standing there awkwardly.

“Domencio,” she greeted warmly. They kissed each other’s cheeks and then leaned away, Domencio offering her a sympathetic smile.

“It’s good to see you, _Sorella_, though I wish it were under better circumstances. Antonia ordered a litter as soon as we heard the news. Are your brothers here yet?”

“I’ve only been here a few hours, but I don’t imagine so.” Fiora sighed. “Piero is in _Venezia_ for business and that is a two day’s ride away from _Firenze_, and I don’t know where Niccola is.”

“He’s home with his wife,” Antonia said. “Last I heard he was sick and staying at home. I’m not sure if he’ll come.”

Domencio shook his head, grimacing as he looked towards their burnt home. “If it helps, the authorities will find out who did it quickly. Your family is—” he broke off, voice lowering, “--_was_ wealthy, and influential. They will be avenged.”

“They don’t need to bother,” Antonia spat suddenly, her face turning red with anger. “It was obviously those filthy _guelfi neri_, trying to stick the Pope in everybody’s business!”

“Antonia!” Fiora gasped.

“Well, it’s true,” the woman insisted. She waved a hand towards the building. “Look at what they’ve done – they have burn down our family home! Our parents were in there, Fiora, and they killed them!”

The woman’s fists shook, and she took a large step towards the house. Fiora recognised the action – her gait was uneven and heavy, as it was every time in their childhood that Antonia was too angry to see or even think straight. She tried to stop her sister but Antonia walked past her.

Before she could take another step, however, Domencio wrapped an arm around his wife’s waist, pulling her into him with whispered words. She fought against him but he didn’t let go, sending Fiora an apologetic look. “Sorry, _Sorella_. Antonia has involved herself in politics for a while, despite my protests. She has all these books about the _guelfi_ and the _ghibellini_, how they fought over the Pope and the Emperor and who got to lead. When the _guelfi_ split amongst themsleves she only gotten more interested, and this…” he sighed and shook his head. “This tragedy has only made her decision stronger.”

Antonia huffed, glaring at Domencio over her shoulder. “You don’t have to talk about me like I’m not here, you know. I can hear everything you say!” Domencio kissed her hand in apology and she sighed, stopping her struggles against him. “I know it was them. Our parents were not ashamed of their views, and those _puttane_ are cruel and evil enough to murder. They’ve done it before.”

“You’ve both done it,” Fiora sighed. She shook her head, frowning at her sister. “Honestly, this feud is the most tiring thing I have ever seen. It has been almost a thirty years since we defeated the _ghibelli_, and all you’ve done is turn on each other. All it’s done is cause more fruitless deaths, so many that could have been avoided! Why do you bother?”

Antonia avoided her eyes, but Fiora could see they were lines with tears.

She sighed, then grabbed the woman’s hands. “Put your political squabbling aside and let’s mourn out parents, okay? They would want to be remembered, not used as fuel for more fights.”

Antonia took in a breath, then slowly nodded. “Yes. You’re right, Fiora. I’m sorry, it’s just – I’ve been so scared,” she said, her voice wavering. “And I-I didn’t want to think about it, about how our parents are _dead_, so I just fuelled all that into anger.”

She broke into tears, spinning into her husband’s arms. Domencio rubbed her back gently, whispering into her ear once again. He looked up at Fiora, nodding before leading Antonia away from prying eyes and back into the litter.

Fiora looked to the building, blinking away her own tears. She was a nun, now, had been practising in the words of the Lord for the past two years already, and still had two more to go. It was her duty to make sure her parent’s death wasn’t for nothing, and she would make sure they didn’t, if it was the last thing she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
**Research notes:**  

> 
> • Okay, first off - politics. During the Renaissance Northern and Upper Central Italy was split into warring “city-states” which involved a lot of cities, including Florence and Venice, the two mentioned in my story. The battle was between two parties: the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. The Guelfs stood for the Pope against Imperial supremacy, whilst the Ghibellines supported the Emperor and didn’t accept the “Church’s intromission in politics”. Eventually the Guelphs beat the Ghibellines in 1289, but the Guelphs just began fighting amongst themselves and ended up diving into two further factions: the Black and White Guelphs. The Blacks continued to support the Pope, but the Whites didn’t want him to be involved in their politics.
> 
> • Names, as always, are accurate. In fact, it’s scarily accurate? I looked up “Italian Renaissance names” and got a post specifically from 1427, so… My story takes place in the 1300s but I still took those names because I say so. I could dive into the meanings of each name and why I chose them, but in honesty I just picked Fiora and Antonia’s names because they were pretty, and the guys’ names because they were popular.
> 
> • Google said that to walk from Venice to Florence takes 54h hours, or 2.25 days. I assumed it’d be quicker because you’d use horses to travel, but in reality horses were apparently very expensive to use and buy so most people would walk from town to town. I know that Fiora and Antonia’s family were rich, and so it’s possible Piero would have the money to use a horse, but even with a horse it’d still probably be 2 days because the horse needs to rest and all that.
> 
> • But relating to that, in the Renaissance carriages and horses were often used by noblemen and merchants, but the wealthiest would travel by litter – this is basically when they would be in a carriage but instead of horses, they’d be carried by people. Look them up on Google under “Italian litter carriage.” In honesty, if Fiora’s family was wealthy enough to travel by litter then they would probably have had too much security for a person to burn their house. On the other hand, you could imagine that it’s Domencio’s family that is wealthy enough to travel by litter, which would solve the whole ‘security problem’.
> 
> • Onto nuns! I’m pretty sure any normal person would be like, “a nun as a character? Weird choice but okay” but in reality joining a cloister was a very common choice for women. Whilst most lower or middle class women would work in shops and the like, most women from the upper classes only had two options in life: marriage or church. However, marrying off your daughter actually took a lot of money so families would usually only marry off their eldest daughter, and have the remaining ones become nuns. They had to do this because to have a woman remain single or be sexually active would “tarnish the family’s reputation”. This implies that Antonia is the eldest daughter, and that Fiora is younger than her.
> 
> • The mentions about her being kept away from her family are also accurate – it takes 4 years to become a nun, and most of the time cloisters will keep the nun-in-training indoors the whole time, only allowing limited visits from the family and communication through letters. These days it’s actually by choice whether a nun will limit herself from her family in order to better focus on her studies, but during the Italian Renaissance it was expected that you wouldn’t see your daughter much after she joined a convent. They joined cloisters when they turned 13 or 14, and if Fiora’s been training for 2 years already then in this story she’s 15-16.
> 
> • Another thing (why so much about nuns?) is the description of Fiora’s veil. The veil is the material nuns wear on their heads, and you most likely see black ones. In reality, nuns wear black veils when they’ve taken their vows and finished training. White veils are worn before you’ve finished your training, which is why Fiora wears a white one. Also, I wasn’t sure how much you are allowed to touch a nun? It says you’re allowed to kiss a nun’s cheek and since it’s a customary Italian greeting I kept that in, but I’m not too clear on the hugging. I assumed because Antonia is her sister she would be allowed to hug her, but notice how it’s always Fiora who pulls away first.
> 
> _Word count: 1003._
> 
> _Please don’t forget to leave comments kudos as they really help my motivation!_


	14. Day fourteen - "Overgrown"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Overgrown" as in the plants in the shop, by the way.
> 
> I had a lot of fun with this fic, I think you'll be able to tell. ;D Also, there is a bit of foreshadowing, like, five paragraphs in, I wonder if anyone can spot it.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> EDIT: I forgot to mention that in this world it's an AU where magic is known and accepted, ect.

Luke blinks as he stands in front of the building, the bright colours making his eyes hurt. A sign hangs from one of the windows, proudly proclaiming, _”Emmanuel’s Plant Shed”_ with vibrant hues and tints. Behind the sign, green shoots and leaves are creeping over the edge and planting themselves in front of the window, giving the impression of a flower shop out of control.

Luke takes one second to consider whether he should go to a different shop. Witch-run flower shops aren’t rare, they’re quite popular actually, but the one he usually goes to is closed for the day. And he’s going to visit his mother to visit tomorrow and she always gets fussy when he travels without a charm.

But is it really worth it? If the outside of this shop already hurts his eyes, is he willing to go inside where he will, undoubtedly, get blinded with only more and more colour? He thinks it over. Which is worse - going home with damaged eyes, or having his mother yell at him?

Yeah, no. Get him blind any day – his mother can hold a _grudge_.

With a sigh, Luke pulls the door open and steps inside. Immediately, he starts coughing. The air is thick with the smell of _plants_, there’s no better way to describe it. Dozens of different flowers and herbs all squashed into one itty-bitty shop. Several candles dot the place, placed on counters and shelves and a few even dangerously close to the plants. Along the counter he sees some crystals lined up, a few entwined into necklaces or rings, but all of them glowing bright and shiny.

As she came in a bell rung above his head, and only a few moments later a man emerges from the back room. And hot _damn._

Luke thinks he just turned gay all over again, because this guy? Real-life Adonis. He’s wearing a snug-fitting white t-shirt that’s teasing some _really_ impressive shoulders, an (admittedly pretty cringy) apron with the shop’s logo plastered on the front. And whilst Luke usually isn’t into aprons, this guy is working it so good he thinks he might have developed a new kink. He has dark, jewelled eyes and bouncy black hair, a jaw you could probably cut meat on and the hints of some hot-as-hell stubble. His clothes are punctuated with stray leaves and stalks, like he hadn’t noticed they were there, and a nametag reading _’Emmanuel’_ sits on his chest.

Luke briefly considers changing his name to Luke Emmanuel (Phillips is a stupid last name anyway) before realising that’s not how surnames work, and that Really-Hot-No-Like-Hot-as-Hell-_Seriously_ Emmanuel is opening his mouth to speak. 

“Hello,” he greets, voice tinted with an accent Luke can’t recognise. “Welcome to my shop. What can I help you with?”

Luke opens and closes his mouth for a second before shaking himself. “Oh, uh – I-I need a safe travel charm, for. Well, for travelling, obviously,” he stumbles over his words, cursing himself silently. “I’d make one myself but I kinda… suck at magic… so…”

Emmanuel laughs softly, nodding his head. “You’re not the first, don’t worry. Not everyone has the natural gift of wielding magic. Now,” he says, reaching for something under the desk. “Any specifics?”

“Oh, uh.” Luke has been saying ‘uh’ a lot recently, he realises. He quickly spits off plants he’s allergic to any and stones he doesn’t like, then Emmanuel nods decisively.

“You alright with dried sage?” Luke nods, then after Emmanuel doesn’t react he says so out loud. “Alright, I’m gonna get the ingredients, you can stay here.”

Luke sends him a thumbs up but Emmanuel just turns away, doesn’t even look at him, and Luke feels the hope inside him dwindle. Probably straight. Ugh, being gay sucked sometimes. He watched as Emmanuel wandered around the shop, realising after a bit that the man’s holding a walking cane. It’s black at the top, Emmanuel’s grip on it easy and soft, almost like he’s not really using it. A few more moments pass because Luke realises that he’s _not_ using it, instead just holding it to the side – like he took it just for the sake of it. The cane is red at the bottom, but it skirts along the ground instead of helping Emmanuel walk evenly. And, honestly, he doesn’t even look to be struggling to walk – and Luke was raised to never judge somebody by their environment, but the guy is holding a walking stick and he’s not even using it? What gives?

He watches curiously as the shopkeeper comes back, hands full of colour, before he sets the cane aside and spreads the ingredients on the counter. Emmanuel feels them out for a second, running his hand along the material before reaching behind the counter and fetching a lighter.

“What exactly are you trying to attract? Experiences or safety?”

“Safety,” Luke says.

Emmanuel nods and then places a gold candle on the counter. “Can you light this for me in a bit? Not exactly safe for me to, you know,” he ends in a laugh.

Luke narrows his eyes but nods, playing with the flame of the lighter as Emmanuel pulls out an orange pouch. He reaches for the plants, picking off what looked like bay leaves and a chrysanthemum flower. He then pulls out a tray of gems, trailing his hand along the material before grabbing a ruby and an amethyst. After that, the man hands a carving knife to Luke.

“I like to burn my sigils in wax, especially for a protection spell. Do you have one in mind you can carve into the candle?”

Luke huffs a laugh as he akes the knife. “I thought you’re supposed to do all the work, what with me paying for your services and all?”

Emmanuel snorts. “You really wanna give a blind guy a knife?”

Luke freeze.

The word’s play back in his head. Did he just hear that? Oh, God, he just heard that. He totally just heard that. Yep, that was real. That happened. _Blind_. Emmanuel was _blind._

Oh God. And Luke had given him a thumbs up!

Suddenly there’s a loud guffaw, and he snaps his head up to see Emmanuel’s head thrown back in laughter, his long neck exposed, muscles rippling and – _no_, dammit brain, focus!

Emmanuel’s shoulders shake as he absolutely loses it, wiping a tear from his eye. “Oh, man, I – oh, did you seriously not know?”

Luke hangs his head.

“Did the cane somehow not clue you in?”

He glances to the side to the side, where the cane – a _white cane_, not a walking cane, dear God – sits innocently.

Luke coughs and shrugs, voice timid as he says, “I was… distracted?”

Emmanuel snorts. “Must have been a pretty good distraction.”

_Yeah_, Luke thinks as he chases his eyes away from Emmanuel’s neck, _it was pretty good._

“So have you carved the sigil yet?”

“Uhh, no,” Luke says as he hurries to do so. “I was too busy trying to get the Earth to swallow me whole.”

Emmanuel laughs. “Honestly, don’t worry. It’s not the first time this has happened to me.”

Luke glances up. “Seriously? How many times a day do people come in here demanding you carve them stuff with knives?”

The man’s lips twitch. “Okay, maybe it doesn’t happen that often. But still, don’t feel so bad.”

“Don’t feel so bad,” Luke mutters under his breath. “Yeah, sure, cause that’s easy.” He sets the candle to the side, heaving a sigh. “Okay, I’ve done the candle. Can I go jump off a cliff now?”

“Not yet,” Emmanuel says, voice amused. “We gotta wait until the sigil’s burned off, then you can go find a cliffside.” He settles his elbows on the counter and cups his chin in his palm. “Seriously, though? No clue?”

Luke shrugs, then says out loud, “no. I mean, I did find it kind of weird that you were feeling up the plants and all that, but no.”

“I’m gonna take that as a compliment, I think.”

Luke smiles. “I don’t mean to pry, but… why do you carry the cane around if you don’t use it?”

Emmanuel sighed, and Luke was about to take his words back when the man answered. “That’s mostly for my sister. I only bought this shop a few months ago so I’m still getting used to it, but I can walk around without help pretty fine. She’s a worrywart, though, and always makes me carry it at least. And I’ve tried to leave it at home, or even bring it to the shop but not use it, but she knows, _somehow_ \- it’s like she’s a bloodhound.”

Luke laughs. “Maybe she’s secretly part werewolf?”

“She is good at keeping secrets,” Emmanuel hums thoughtfully. “And there’s no way I’d be able to tell unless she was growling at me or something.”

“Maybe you should just, like, subtly feel her face every five minutes,” Luke jokes. “To see if she’s wolfed out or not. I’m sure she wouldn’t notice you sticking her thumb up her nose.”

Emmanuel grins, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but if you don’t stop talking about my sister’s nose pretty soon I’m no longer going to want your number.”

Luke startled, sitting up to fast he threw some leaves on the floor. He cursed as he bent to pick them up, cheeks glowing red at the sound of Emmanuel’s chuckling. He gets back up, then squeaks, “what?”

“I want your number,” Emmanuel says, and no, Luke _wasn’t_ dreaming that, apparently. “You look cute.”

“Oh, well thank y—” Luke pauses, frowns. “Wait a minute.”

Emmanuel laughs. “Did I get you?”

“No,” Luke insists. “Maybe I don’t even want your number anymore.”

The raise of a brow. “Really?”

Something in Luke’s heart squeezes, and before he’s even realising it, he’s crying out, “no, wait, I do!” and his cheeks and burning _even more. If possible._

“So… is that a yes?”

Luke scowls. “Oh, whatever, stop looking so smug.”

He totally scores a date with the hottest guy in the world. 

Oh, yeah, and a safe travel charm but that doesn’t kiss _nearly_ as good. (Or at all, actually.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
Research notes:  
**
> 
> • There’s not really anything I researched here apart from the charm but I knew all of that anyways. I’ll detail all the explanation in the next bullet points, but on another note please comment down if I misrepresented anything or anyone!
> 
> • Okay, so the charm. In Wiccan you can charm an object which is basically instilling within in desirable properties. In this case, Emmanuel was charming a pouch with protective properties that are fit for safe travel. 
> 
> • First is the candle and the pouch – Emmanuel asks if he wants it to attract experience or safety. In other words, if the charm should protect him against danger or make the trip more fun and exciting. Luke’s answer changed the colour of the candle. A gold candle represents protection and safety – if Luke would have said experience I’d probably use either green, which represents luck, or orange, which represents experience and stimulation. This is also why the pouch is orange, because it represents experience.
> 
> • You would put the plants and crystals into the pouch. Bay leaves represent protection as do chrysanthemums. A ruby is good for all-around healing (for example it improves sleep, wards off depression ect) but also draws in adventure. Amethyst is associated with healing and is also a good protector. Personally, I would have added quartz – most likely clear – because quartz is good at relieving pain and protects against physic attacks, but more importantly it amplifies energy – so basically, if you add quartz (any quartz) into a charm it will amplify what all the other gems and herbs are trying to do, in this case protect Luke on his travels.
> 
> • Sigils is a symbol that contains energy which is used to create the witch’s desired outcome. Different ones mean different things, and you can either use someone else’s or create your own. There are several ways to make your own, but here’s a good website I use when I’m too lazy to create my own: https://sigilscribe.me/. I could go into detail on the ways I personally use to create sigils but it’s really not important, and if you want to learn you can look it up yourself – it’s super easy.
> 
> • The thing about the burning candle is one way to activate the sigil. Basically, there are three types of sigils: permanent, temporary, and destructible. Destructible sigils are “charged” instead of activated, which means that you give it the energy needed to complete its task in the course of destroying it. Some examples would be writing a sigil on a piece of paper then burning it, or soaking in water, or throwing it into the wind. These actions give it the energy it needs but also means you won’t be able to reuse that sigil. Permanent and temporary sigils need to be “activated” which is the same as being charged but they’re not destroyed. Or, if they are, it’s not for a while. This is because that sigil needs to stick around, so you give it the energy it needs but you keep it around. Examples would include writing it on a piece of paper then tearing it slightly (the tear activates it but doesn’t destroy it until the paper wares away), writing it on your skin (touching your skin activates it, and it eventually washes off after a while) ect. Carving it into a candle then letting it melt activates it (carving it activates it, and soon the candle melts enough to cover it).
> 
> _Word count: 1706 (I had fun with this, what can I say?)_
> 
> _Comments are appreciated, as always! They're even more appreciated when I'm representing another group I myself am not in as I really don't want to offend anyone, so if you see any problems with anything in this chapter don't hesitate to call me out!_


	15. Day fifteen - "Legend"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A super short chapter because I'm a busy bee!

Never come near the West River.

You’ve heard the warnings, right? The rumours, the legends? Of the dark monsters that hide in the shadows, that lie at the surface, waiting every second of every day for a curious child to walk closer and closer, _just_ close enough to stumble? To trip? _To fall._

Never come near the West River. It’s dark and muddy, and you can’t see your reflection – but if you do, then you’ll notice it’s off. Maybe the nose is titled slightly, or the chin is slightly thinner. Or maybe you have sharper teeth, or your eyes glow more than normal. And never a kind colour – no calming blue, or happy yellow. No, in the West River your eyes turn cold grey, or poisonous purple, or blood red. And always when you never expect.

The warnings all say the same thing: stay away from the river. The rumours all tell of a horrible monster, with long claws and vicious snarls, one with wings and another with three tails. But the legends give these monsters, these _characters_ names.

They’re never the same.

They’re always different. Ask a young child, and they’ll cry so loud you can’t hear them. Ask a stoic businessman, and he’ll glare at you and turn away without speaking. Ask a stressed mother and she will look at you, eyes haunted, and tell you to never ask that question again.

Why? Why are they so _afraid_ of the names of these monsters?

It’s quite simple, really.

Because the names of these monsters are _their names_.

Every legend, story, rumour, fabrication you hear about the West River is different because one detail is different – the detail of the name. And the name is always yours.

Always.

These monsters hide, using your name as they hunt children, adults – anyone who is vulnerable. Anyone who is just too comfortable, too reckless, so, _so_ sure they’re safe. And they’re not. They’re never safe, not if they’re next to the West River.

But you never realise it until it’s too late.

Never come to the West River.

Because the monsters are lonely, and you want them to stay lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No notes because this is seriously just 'aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah there's a deadline, have this!'
> 
> _Word count: 358._
> 
> _Obligatory please comment and kudos bit down here._


	16. Day sixteen - "Wild"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is from the point of view of a possum.
> 
> (Written before my research) I want to make this clear, I have no idea what a possum is. Is it a mammal? A marsupial? A liquid? What even is that creature? Is it kind, aggressive? Is it's fur made of Velcro, and if not, how can it hold all those babies in one place? What is even going on??
> 
> I knew I wanted this to be from the POV of a wild animal but I didn't know which, so I asked my friend. Two people - two separate, different people who don't even know each other - said possum. And I'm like, _why? I don't even know what that thing is? Why do you want me to do this?_ Anyways, I was convinced after I bullied my friend into doing a drawing for me. So let's see how this turns out?
> 
> (Written after my research) Okay so I just spent a couple hours researching possums and first off - it's _opossum_ not possum, did you know that? Did you? I didn't. But anyways, I spent several hours flicking through wikipedia, WWF sites, and others in order to research possums and I'm still only, like, 55% convinced they're an actual creature and not some type of liquid. So... better?
> 
> Anyhow, enjoy.

The possum sniffed the air one more time, praying the damp smell of the rain would rescind, but it was for nothing. The clouds on grew heavier and heavier, covering the sky in a blanket of grey and black, letting no light through.

It almost looked like it was night, and she wondered if that was why her joeys were so quiet. Or maybe it was because they too were missing their old den.

The past month had not been kind to them. They’d settled near a human town, happy to grow fat from the waste they left behind, but a dog had caught the possum’s scent and gave chase. She’d made it all the way to forest before fainting, waking up to find two of her joeys had wandered off and found their deaths.

After that, they had wandered. Far and wide, walking for days with little sleep and even less food. The joeys voiced their discomfort and the possum tried to make do, to let them crawl down and play with each other, but every second they wasted to mess around was every second they were further away from safety.

She’d only just found a viable den when the smell of rain came. The den was small and shallow, and she knew it wouldn’t survive. If she wanted to keep her joeys alive then she needed to find another den.

Inna sniffed the air one more time, praying the damp smell of the rain would rescind, but it was for nothing. The scent was still strong, even stronger now, and the clouds grew heavier and heavier, covering the sky in a blanket of grey and black.

The clouds blocked all the light, and it was so dark it almost looked like night. Inna wondered if that was why her joeys were so quiet – or maybe it was because they too were missing their old den.

She shook her head. Now was not the time to reminisce, now was the time to move. The rain would be coming soon and their current den, a den they’d only been in a few days, was too shallow and too close to the surface to avoid being flooded. If she wanted to keep her babies safe, she’d need to get a move on now.

Inna clicked over her shoulder, waiting until she heard three sneezes in response. She shook her pelt lightly, letting them know to hold on tight, then started moving.

The wind was harsh and bitter, and her joeys let out disgruntled squeaks but she soldiered on. Though she couldn’t see it, she knew the sun was sinker further and further down, and soon enough the larger predators in the forest would come out, and they’d be hungry.

Inna hurried as she scrambled up a tree, spying over the forest from high up. Most of it was blocked by other trees but she spied a few trees with thick leaves, perhaps thick enough to keep water away from any underground tunnels.

Before, their den had been good. It’d been warm, and cozy, and the first place the joeys had opened their eyes in. It was near a human town, and Inna had no complaints about growing fat off the waste they left around. It had been a good few months, but it also meant she got complacent. Comfortable. Caught off guard.

So when the dog came, she didn’t react fast enough. One of the joeys fell off her back and she couldn’t even look back to see if they’d escaped or not. When she made it into the forest she fainted – tried her hardest not to, tried to move every muscle in her body, but nothing worked – and when she woke up another two had wandered off.

She didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to _any_ of them. She was tired of this life.

Inna ducked under a bush as a flash of white struck the sky. The rain had hardened as she was thinking, and now there were blinding claw marks in the sky. On her back, her babies cried out in alarm, trying to burrow further into her fur. She winced at the feeling but let them do it – the first time she’d seen lightning she’d been scared, too – terrified, even, and back then her mother let her hide herself too.

So she just moved on, ignoring the pain of the little claws in her shoulders, and made her way towards the dens.

The first one was a bust, the bottom of it coated in water. It was fine for a now, probably would be for the next few hours, but in the morning she could possibly be drowning in it.

The next one hid a fox. The animal had frozen when she came in, then rapidly flashed its fangs and chased her out. For one terrified second Inna feared she’d dropped a baby, but when she clicked her call they all responded. She let out a breath. She still had time.

She approached the third one slowly. Her hopes were low and she didn’t expect much, but it was at least empty. Inna stuck her head in, swivelling her gaze until it touched every inch of the den. It was damp, yes, but not too much. It would most likely survive the night.

She entered the hollow under the tree, curling around her body. Her joeys mingled between themselves, pushing and shoving for a teat, yelling loudly in indignation if they were refused a drink of milk.

Inna sighed as she placed her head on the ground, watching her belly expand, then fall smaller once more. Her head ached and her feet bled, and she stared at her babies as they fed.

Inna hoped they’d have an easier life than her, shuffled to make it easier for them, and slowly fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: I'm too lazy to write the full notes so have these, what basically all my notes look like before I edit them to be comprehensible:
> 
> • 20-30 born at once, but only 13 teats mean few survive because life is hard. Normal litter is 8  
• Reside in momma’s pouch for 2 and a half months before climbing on her back, then leaving at 5 months  
• When threatened, involuntary faint or “play possum” and excrete some eewy gas out of their asses.  
• Okay so they have opposable thumbs on their back legs and can climb trees because of that?? Go wild I guess  
•   
baby possums sneeze to alert their mommas??? What is this, that is so cute??? Mums will click back in resposne  
• Original plan to have name as opossum in a different language backfired because every language has is as opossum. First, get more creative. There’s no second point. Went for Inna because I played Shelter 2 
> 
> _Word count: 976 (just a hair away from my goal of 1000 so sorry but also deal with it, I am a gift.)_


	17. Day seventeen - "Ornament"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I know the last few chapters have been short but I also refuse to do more than 600 words on a prompt that I associate with _Christmas ornaments in an October challenge._
> 
> I refuse.
> 
> (Also I'm super lazy)
> 
> Enjoy anyways!

On the late evening of 24th December 1903, Lillian McTire dropped a Christmas ornament.

The ornament was gold in colour and carried the expected shininess, but instead of being cold and solid to the touch, the ornament was fluffy and unnaturally warm. Not hot, just warm. Warm enough that it blended into the heat of the palm, so much so that someone would sometimes forget it was there, reach for something with the hand, and almost drop it.

But no one actually dropped it. That was, until, Lillian McTire.

The ornament had stayed in the family for generations. Nobody knew who had it first, or where they’d got it from – just that every year, every new house, every growing family found it and put it on the tree.

So when Lillian McTire dropped it, she had no idea that she had just released a curse that would last for centuries.

Her ancestors, however, _certainly did._

For example, take Tyler Hale. Lillian McTire’s great-great-great grandson, her last name being lost fairly quickly through the generations. Born on a cold evening in 1999, too old to be able to be a 90s kid but too early to be born in the next millennia, Tyler was a fat baby with chubby cheeks and a loud temper that often made people want to cover their ears, even if it was obvious.

Tyler grew up with lots of bumps and scratches, his bikes always breaking for no reason, his shirts ripping despite only being bought a few days ago, his shampoo causing an allergic reaction even though it was the same brand he’d used for the past three years.

Once upon a time, Tyler wondered if he’d secretly been born on a Friday the 13th and that his parents had lied about his birthday, until he discovered a taped box – like, a _really_ taped box, and overly taped box – in the box, with hurriedly scrawled writing on its side.

_DO NOT TOUCH. EVER. SERIOUSLY. JUST STOP. RIGHT THERE._

And so Tyler, of course, like any healthy teenage boy, opened the box.

Which proceeded to topple over him and sprain his ankle. Of course.

After that, his parents told him that great-great-great grandma Lillian had cursed their family decades ago, and that they just had to deal with that.

Tyler wasn’t too pleased about that.

It was a normal day when the boy woke up. His alarms had failed to go off, as always, despite him having seven of them in a row. His toast was burnt, and the jam he used was a few days out of date, and before he left his dog grabbed some homework from his bag and tore it to pieces.

Tyler sighed. How was he supposed to explain _that one_ to Mrs Ochalek?

He left the house, only having to pull three times until his coat got untrapped from the front door, which was a new record. The bus left without him, of course, some kids in the back sticking their tongues out at him. Tyler then walked to school, sprinting past that one house with the crazy dog, making it to school only five minutes late.

He walked into his classroom, eyes closed in exhaustion as he collapsed in his chair. After a minute he opened them, only to jump up when he saw the class was filled with students _not_ in his year.

“Uhhh.”

The teacher raised a brow. “I’m afraid we don’t have a class until fourth period, Mr Hale.”

Tyler blinked. “Uhhhhh.”

He then jumped up, blushing furiously as he made his way out of the classroom. Behind him, he could hear a few students giggling and whispering. He hunched his shoulders even more.

_Stupid Lillian McTire,_ he cursed in his head. That God damn ornament.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No notes because I spat this out onto my keyboard and viola.
> 
> _Word count: 630._
> 
> _Comments! Kudos! All that! I'm currently listening to a city pop playlist and jamming the hell out, this is good_


	18. Day eighteen - "Misfit"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have an actual plot to this one! And because of this, this story will be a TWO PARTER!! Wooo, yaaayy, cheeeers!
> 
> Basically, tomorrow's prompt - sling - will continue the story below. This because I had a pretty good idea in mind but I felt it was too long to be one piece, so I'm cutting it down to two.

Marcus had only been in his room for a few minutes when the door was thrown open again. He groaned, lamenting the loss of his listening session and pausing the song on his phone. My Chemical Romance would have to wait, he was afraid. He groaned once again, closing his eyes as if in pain as his brother marched into the room.

“What’s wrong now?” Marcus asked.

He glanced up when there was no response. Dean sat on his bed, his knees pulled up to his chest, cheeks blotchy and eyes tinted red.

“What happened?” Marcus insisted. “Was it those bullies again?”

“I hate them,” Dean said instead of answering, but the broken anger in his voice was a clear yes. “They’re stupid, I don’t even know why they hate me so much.”

Marcus sighed as he close his school book, placed it on his desk and shifted to face his brother. “It’s because we weren’t born here.” He shrugged. “I guess it’s the whole ‘small town’ mentality or something. But it’s nothing _you_ did, okay? So stop tearing yourself up about that.”

The boy looked up, his eyes flaring. “That’s even worse! Why should I get treated this way just because I wasn’t born here? Why should you, or Jesse?”

Marcus blinked, looking down to his hands. Jesse, their youngest brother, was taking the move harder than anyone else – he missed all his friends, his teachers, and had come home multiple times begging not to go back to school.

Their parents were considering granting that hope, and to transfer Jesse to another school. But that wasn’t because he was new to town – no, the kids here, the _wonderful, thoughtful, model_ kids here bullied their youngest brother because he was born without arms.

Marcus looked at Dean again. “Look, Mum and Dad are dealing with that, okay? It’ll get better.”

Dean snorted bitterly. “No it won’t! They’re not doing _anything_. Last week, we had an assembly about how bullying is wrong and bad and all that. But it didn’t change anything – people still call me names or push me in lines. You know, back in our old school, I was really popular – I was in the football team! Now,” he pouted, “now I’m always the last person to be picked for a team. And I hate it.”

He huffed, sticking his head between his knees. Marcus sat there for a second – he wasn’t good at comforting anyone, let alone his eleven-year-old brother, and had nothing to say as they stayed in silence.

Just as he was about to open his mouth and probably say something extremely awkward, Dean jumped up suddenly. Marcus started, watching with wide eyes as Dean paced the length of the room excitedly. 

“Okaaay… I feel like you’re about to say something very stupid,” started Marcus as he stood up, “so why don’t we just calm down and stop wearing a whole into my floors--“

“Let’s go into the forest!”

Marcus blinked. Once. Twice. Then he snorted. “Let’s _what now_?”

“The forest,” Dean said, as if Marcus didn’t know what one was. “The one behind the town.”

“And why would we do that?” Dean mumbled something quietly. “Come again?”

The boy stayed silent for a few more minutes. Eventually, though, after his brother just stared for another minute, he sighed loudly, crying out, “because there’s a ghost in there, okay?”

“A what?” Marcus laughed. “A ghost? Why do you want to go see a _ghost_?”

“Because!” Dean yelled, a massive grin on his face. He jumped up onto Marcus’ bed, bouncing on it as he did so. “Everyone’s talking about it, how it’s haunted and all that. We should go in! We could, like, persuade the ghost to bully our bullies!”

Marcus sighed, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “Yeah, okay, except ghosts aren’t real?”

Dean frowned. “They so are, you’re just stupid.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, just like Santa is real.”

Dean groaned, burying his head in his hands. “For the last time, I _don’t_ believe in Santa Claus! I’m just playing along for Mum and Dad!”

“Sure you are.” Marcus shook his head, amused. “You’re not crying anymore, right? Right, so forget about this ghost stuff and go away.”

Dean glared at his brother. “Well, _fine_. If you’re not gonna go with me, then I’ll take Jesse.”

“Jesse’s an even bigger baby than you.” Marcus shrugged. “Good luck convincing him.”

He sat back down, turning his back on Dean. For a few moments he could hear the boy continue to linger before he let out a frustrated breath and marched out of the room. Marcus smiled to himself – Dean was always so easy to wind up, all he needed to do with disagree with him the slightest and the kid would throw a massive hissy fit. It always provided entertainment.

Marcus shook his head as he settled back into his homework. A few minutes passed, and then a few more. Eventually, Marcus realised it was too quiet. And in a house with siblings, _quiet meant trouble._

The teen hesitated, then pushed his chair back. He grumbled under his breath as he walked down the stairs, searching through the house but finding it empty. He was about to give up on his mission when he noticed two figures through the garden window.

He threw himself out of the door, running quickly and yelling, “hey, wait!”

The two figures before him were wearing bright coats. Their parents insisted on the reflective type, which only made them look even more out of place next to the darkness of the evening sky.

Dean was garbed in a bright red raincoat, his cheeks pink and hands shoved into his pockets. He liked to pretend the cold never bothered him, but it was obvious when he shivered, or when his teeth clattered, that he _desperately_ needed some gloves and a hat. Jesse, on the other hand, was the complete opposite – he wore a thick white winter coat, with a fluffy coloured hat their grandma had sewn them and a matching scarf.

The brothers blinked innocently at Marcus, exchanging shifty looks as their brother raised a brow. “Well?” he asked. “Were you seriously going to just leave for the forest when it’s almost night?!”

Dean shrugged. “Well, you didn’t stop me.”

“I didn’t think I had to!”

Jesse glanced between them. “Dean said if I went with them he’d get me the new Star Wars movie.” The kid rolled his eyes when Dean whined desperately, making complicated hand signals that translated to, _’Marcus is RIGHT THERE, bro, stop!’_. Jesse just looked back to Marcus. “He made me.”

“No I didn’t!” Dean protested. “You wanted to come yourself!”

“You bribed him,” Marcus said dryly. “You abused his nerdy tendencies and dragged him so that you wouldn’t die alone.”

“I’m not nerdy,” Jesse said, frowning. “It’s _geeky_. There’s a difference.”

Marcus rolled his eyes. “I don’t care. Just come inside, will you? Mum and Dad will kill me if they know I’ve let out this late.”

Jesse skipped forward, nudging his brother as he pouted. “Oh, come _on_ Marcus. It’s boring at home, let’s explore! I want to say hi to that ghost.”

Marcus glared at Dean. “You’ve got him hooked on that too, now, huh? Thanks. There’s no ghost,” he told Jesse. “Dean’s just making it up because he’s an idiot.”

“I’m not! They’re _real_, I promise they are! And if you don’t believe me,” Dean said, his eyes turning steely, “then I’ll prove it.”

With that he turned and marched away. Jesse and Marcus exchanged a glance, the younger shrugging sheepishly.

Marcus sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Wait here, okay? I’ll go grab a coat.”

Jesse, of course, immediately ran after Dean, yelling, “he’s coming, he’s coming, he’s coming, Dean!”

Marcus groaned. His parents were so gonna kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
Research notes:  
**
> 
> • First off, I’d like to thank some people for helping me write this. [Aphylla](https://oneflydude.tumblr.com/) helped me plan out this story and how to fill in the prompt for “misfit”, which is really helping as I think I started running out of idea by day 8? Maybe 9? I’d also like to thank another friend who shall remain nameless for helping me come up with the characters! They came up with the brothers, their names, their personalities, and all that.
> 
> • Some notes on Jesse: firstly, I kept accidentally typing his name as “Jessee”. Like, _all_ the time, it was a problem. Anyways, my headcanon is that he was born with phocomelia, which creates underdevelopment and mutations in your body. Jesse is missing both his left and right arm, though it’s probably from natural causes rather than his mother using thalidomide. It doesn’t really play a large part in the story, but I’d like to practise with characters who don’t fit the societal norm, and doing that within small stories where it doesn’t have a central role is much better than making a whole novel revolve around it, only to realise I’ve represented it wrong. So yeah!
> 
> • Also, the thing about Santa is based off a study that revealed that most UK kids actually stop believing in Santa at age 6 but play long for the parents. Just something random I wanted to include.
> 
> • My headcanon ages for the brothers is: Marcus = 15, Dean = 11, Jesse = 9. I honestly don’t know how aging works so I’m not sure whether anyone is too mature or not.
> 
> _Word count: 1309 (we're back to the thousands!)_
> 
> _As usual, please feel free to leave comments and kudos below! It really helps with encouragement!_


	19. I quit

Hey, so this is just to let you know I’m no longer doing Writetober. It was really fun and amazing, but I’ve recently found it super difficult to keep up with my own work AND this challenge, so I’ve had to make the decision to give up.

I’m really sad but it’s the best choice for me, so sorry if I disappointed anyone but I literally can’t keep up.

Thanks for reading these stories so far! <3


End file.
